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There in the time, were you. Burning like light and moving like darkness. For being complete is nothing less than nothingness.

Maybe the hair strands are meant to cage the breeze. It is after all not an innocent brush of a passer-by. But a gaze, burning through every book employed to cover art, and every scent used as a decoy. A drizzle of steam on a melting face. An enactment of a blatantly romanticized pull, tugging at every vein to stand out in utter disbelief, what on earth befell the first hand that touched another?

There is a breeze stuck in your hair.
"How?"
Just like a bird begging to be free, although aware that the wilderness will be its death.

Maybe cinders are what birthed most of us. And instead of being cherished, we were set ablaze. And just like a volcano, we forgot how to erupt, we found peace in drifting arms. Although somewhat boiling, we were frozen to fever.

Maybe we aren't showers and sunlight but floods and hurricanes.

I've been searching for a window to a day, when words will have faces. Smudged, smiling and shy. All I found was a peephole to the midnight, when faces won't have words.
We can but touch glass to reminisce the hand held on the bridge behind a poster promising a longer summer

My words need meaning, they said. A profound lack of lustre is ******* the verses dry. The absence of a will to not frame riddles, is murdering every blot of ink in red. A noose hangs low from the title, and reaches the name by the time the sentences end. Every word comes as a punch of flesh on stone, unnecessary. A lucky draw of words thrown about for a prize less lottery.

What is more beautiful than an autumn of mess?
More meaningful than a heartache of happiness,
a nosebleed of ecstasy, a pint of pain with gin and love?
More laborious than saying everything and nothing?

Time is a fretboard.
"How?"
When we kissed, couldn't you hear the first note of the concerto?
Peter Feb 2019
I wish I was a guitar,
how easier it would be
to express love living in me,
when my own tongue
helplessly tied.

I wish I was a guitar,
which softly weeps,
how joyous weeping this would be,
how sweet!

My six strings tune
whispered to my dearest's ear
she would adore!

She'd touch my board,
she'd hold me tight,
she'd kiss my neck,

she'd love me more!
Written while listening to Guitar Concerto in D major RV.93 (2) by Antonio Vivaldi
Grame Rabbit Mar 2015
Attentive student of the songs of birds,
    No beakèd beast hath e'er more sweetly trill'd
A pair of notes or call'd in major thirds
    Or minor with musicality more skill'd.
Adaptive linguist, practic'd in the tongue  
    Of wingèd feather'd creatures, thou hast writ
Into "The Birdsong Songbook" songs unsung
    By birds which yet harmoniously fit.
And though the book began in higher throats
    Diversely tun'd by Nature's artful hand
Ere measur'd were the times and tones of notes,
    (Which often rest them now upon a stand),
Its finest lines (o'er which I now do rave)
Witness thy penmanship on every stave.

^ ^
wyle tan Sep 2017
Pink Periwinkles waving along
Various birds singing together
Amidst cool breeze
Under shadows of a palm tree
Listening in the garden of my home
Peace, solitude.
Oh, what a blissful life.
Written on 20 September 2017 at Clementi, Singapore.
Like the alarming abandon
          & disarray of Jackson Pollack,
    equally beguiling disciplined
       skills in the classical baroque
         airs of Antonio Vivaldi,
   midst the wonderment and
          wanderlust of a child,
      I'm awe inspired, unfurled betwixt
          your captivating demeanor
You know who you are...

— The End —