"tonality" poems
first I smell myself.
the deep bass tonality of my musk,
hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy,
my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin
emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing,
under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings
then I smell herself.
sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait,
scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned,
some flavors come over me like modest waves,
others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves,
where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure
then I smell our sharings.
lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper,
a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed,
the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts,
decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula,
word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh
then I smell our combinations.
the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled,
the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins,
the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt,
appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us,
our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem
it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity,
at its most pungent peaking,
for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water
and the sophistry of French soap,
the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo,
together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry,
your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more,
for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of
only love poetry that crested high above the trite
Friday, March 29 2019
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
Near, near are my lucid dreams.
Sultry sleep, augmenting realty
Today, nothing will be as it seems.
Flashes of translucent, magnified beams,
Lighting lingers in treacherous tonality
Near, near are my lucid dreams.
The water flows in upside-down streams,
Rivers rage in confused commonalities
Today, nothing will be as it seems.
The mechanic roar of howling screams,
Shrapnel shrieking in utter infinities.
Near, near are my lucid dreams.
Pulleys construct convoluted schemes
While pollution parades in notorious normality
Today, nothing will be as it seems.
Awake. I go forth, my mind again seamed.
Awake. I go back, into a world of formality.
Near, near are my lucid dreams
Today, nothing will be as it seems.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 12:19 AM UTC
Heartstone is a reflection in music on a ‘lost’ poem. The poem described in its two short verses a summer’s day, a landscape, a fossil found and placed in the palm of a child’s hand. The poem inspired a seven-movement work for wind, brass and percussion with solo piano. Here is its poetic programme note.
Chert
The piano draws an arc of rhythm
rising then falling.
Above
two choirs of wind and brass
exclaim, fanfare, mark out
shorter, determined
gestures of sound.
The procession, almost a march,
becomes a dance.
Alone
Two choirs of wind and brass
become four couples
whose music weaves
from complexity a simplicity:
Chromatic to Pentatonic
twelve becoming five.
Prase
Four stopped horns,
five extended tonalities.
Together they wander
a maze of Pentatonic paths;
alone, and in pairs, as a quartet
they discover within
a measured harmonic rhythm.
Tension: resolution
. . . and surrounding
their every move
the piano
insists an obligato,
a continuum of phrases,
absorbing into itself
the warp and weft of horn tone.
Sard
Oscillating
in perpetual motion
the full ensemble
occupies a frame
of time and space.
Flutes, reeds,
double-reeds
brass, piano,
percussion
mirror-fold on mirror-fold
layer upon layer
overlapping.
Yarns of threaded sound.
Tuff
Without a break
the mirrored oscillations
patter pentatonics
on tuned percussion
of marimba and vibraphone
whilst
a batterie of drums
lays down
shards of beaten rhythm
against this onward
folding of tonality change.
In the background
a choir of winds
flutes and single reeds
waymark this recursive journey
gathering together
cadential moments and the
necessary pause for breath.
Marl
Relentlessly, the motion is sustained,
piano-driven,
a syncopated continuo,
rhythm-sectioned
amidst layers of percussion.
Adding edge,
a choir of brass and double reeds
amplify the piano’s jagged rhythms
providing impetus for
phrases to become longer and longer,
ratching up the tension,
ever-denying closure
until the batterie
delivers
a conclusive flourish.
Paramoudra
Pulse-figures of winds.
Motific cells of brass.
Both
negotiate a stream of
fractal-shaped tonality
expanding: contracting.
A blossom of fanfares
folding into
pulsating layers
of tuned percussion,
flutes and reeds.
A dance-like episode
absorbs a chorale.
Four horns in close harmony
against the continuing dance.
A duet of differences
flows into a cascade of chords
in closed and open forms.
The piano supports
brass-flourishing figures
before a final stillness.
Heartstone
In gentle reflection
the solitary piano –
a figure in a landscape
of collapsed harmonic forms -
presents in slow procession
the essence of previous music.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
(This poem was discovered etched/burnt into the interior woodwork of a viking ship of around 800AD, discovered in the north of England in the '60s. Quite possibly from the northernmost islands around the area now referred to as Archangel, and originally written in what became known as Runic/Russo Scandinavian, it nevertheless resonates clear Saxon/German tonality. Given that it is one of the first examples of early Runic, and indeed that the actual letter-shapes are unclear, the poem has been reproduced below, using broad phonetic license.
As far as can be determined, the content appears to be a somewhat ribald message from the ships leader to his wife. It was not uncommon for women/wives to accompany their men folk on long voyages. Given cramped conditions aboard, the conditions were likely to be insanitary and it is this condition that informs the subject). WJL
Das andrs zu-almen su-cara
Archezum des hafta confagra
Der ecra zu alpe
En pecra nachte schalpe
Viel ondra der zulpa te bag-ra
Und zortem pur ordour cloabera
Eh-min-te ah solbra schactarar
Sul-phereth zum tinctum
Abroath ah den penk-tum
Bai anthe con anthe ebactah-ra
Zorbuhr genkst canke zer vilk-um
Solginster zep ecra der nep-ehlcome
Calmen-de ser paarte
Eh zin bah die faarte
Confide ah can-de zum schtinc-tulm
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 5:23 AM UTC
~
*In her sulking-place
alone and naked
framed in soft sepia
—the vintage, harlequin hue
at this supposed faded hour
she sits looking back on memory
she sits and stares
into the boudoir mirror
at herself
at her embonpoint
yes, at these *******
—at their landscape
how they fall
(like Niagara)
where they point
(like a compass)
what they tell (so fondly)
when pressed together
about their time
—their work and play
towers on the precipice
of judgment
both callous and
uncharitable
if the mirror
truly be her reflection
her vision is turned around
as illusion
—a study of tonality and tolerance
for one's own flesh
the room
an invitation
or perhaps
a lockaway
where she even keeps secrets
from herself*
~
Apr 26, 2021
Apr 26, 2021 at 10:37 AM UTC
It is so measured that rising arpeggio, only to fall and rise again in quicker values, through the dominant seventh to the heartache moment of that minor ninth, a very apogee of dissonance. Then it goes higher still to the fifth, holding to that Phrygian harmony before returning to the tonic minor and a measured fall in the bass. This is a deliberate descent to the sub-mediant, and Bach’s touch of magic, the equivalence with the dominant minor ninth. But then he gives us hope: an extended and joyful play through sequences that rise and fall within each bar, to rest finally on the mediant’s echo of that opening, that measured rise and the quickening fall. We have hardly smiled with relief when Bach pulls us back into the insecurity of the dominant of the subdominant, that V of IV acting like a bridge to a long, long discourse in the dominant, a pedal E holding firmly to itself whilst rising arpeggios and falling decorations and sequences pull and pull through innocently related keys. Longer and longer play the rising passages until short motives of imitation interrupt, treble to bass, tenor to alto, until: a first inversion arpeggio of the dominant seventh measures out the opening rhythm. This happens twice in short succession, as though holding the progress of the music to account. A questioning perhaps before a four-fold sequence asserts the dominant and a chorded caesura. There is a pregnant, though faintly resonant silence as Bach spins the dice of tonality and chooses the subdominant to bring the music towards a waiting Allemande. The music moves through a play of subdominant to dominant, minor to major, the mix of flattened fifth and flattened ninth. It is those intervals that determine Bach as the father of ambiguity in the 20C school of jazz harmony, Arpeggio then a falling scale, and repeat and repeat again, but moving ever higher by sequence. At last five chords – merely a shorthand for closure via the expectation of a right display of the performer’s improvisatory prowess. They prepare us reverently for the tonic minor before the stately Allemande leads the music into the elegant steps of its walking dance.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
Of immaterial vision birthed in mind.
Of spirit annihilating the selves,
of calling it plan. The one-
a semblance scattered on deck space
refracts on reflections of the reactions of tokens
of the carnivalesque,
of the hunger artists,
of phenomenon-
which may or may not exist depending on reflective surface of the true self,
of the motion of tides,
mocks motion in body,
of obsession.
The tonality of the "be" and the "is" and the "will be" is deafened by the "I am,"
by the Ohm.
Of shuddering and implanting embraces,
of blessing on every ember of cleanliness that is true self,
of the oneself that exists above selective memory,
not draft of time arrow but the material existence of dream,
not disembodied but embodied.
Of breeding,
of circumstance and forking fourth dimension prison terms,
of crowd control,
of she wolves and their feral children,
of forceps interpolating material reality of conception,
of Dreamtime,
of pain,
of pleasure,
where they are relations-
of skin perversely hanging, dually,
gratifying and sullying-
Fraying beautiful disasters that react to invisible ripples
I, the oneself, implore you to awaken in your utility and then outside of it.
Take those boot straps and bend the bars of confinement with them.
Chisel and sculpt light into a fabrication of quantum of action.
Celebrate the ordinary and expose it.
Of stargazed caustics,
of the early universe.
I stand awake as not the expression of design
and no longer connected to Earth by my roots
but awake inside cocoon,
entrapped behind slits,
of alien cage otherness.
The Akh beseeches ownership of the Ba
I want play dice with god and end in draw.
I am Sekhmet-Wadjet who dwells in the west of heaven,
I am Sahyt among the souls of Of.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 1:29 AM UTC
I dream of you
And the deep tonality you echo
The sincerity etched to my bone
So that I will never forget the fact
I dream of you
And the pudgy child that came running
Always in the background, always full of wonder
Laughing at things I will never forget
I dream of you
And the sweet nothings you whisper on the dial
The excitement that takes over when I read your letters
The constant reminder of the words I will never forget
I dream of you
And the verbal abuses we bicker back and forth dripped with regret
A cat and mouse chase waiting to fight for the death until one surrenders
Forfeiting the chase I will never forget
I dream of you
And the insecurity of your constant necessity of reassurance
Temporary amnesia you always had towards my own honesty
Forgetting to tell you the words I will never forget
I dream of you
And the opportunities I will never use to convince you
Never will I be able to touch your skin or kiss your lips
I will never forget the last time you said “I love you”.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 6:07 AM UTC
Why is the primal
question.
*This was written one
week primary
to the real
encounter*:
Language difference
enables my poignant
ponderings to
hide among
pink puffy tonality
of your beloved
mother's tongue. To
dwelve smooth and
constructively
conducted within
your howlin'
domesticated
vowels. I so
become wonder
writer smitten
softly,
touched
by pleasant words
of other writers.
Not suffering.
As I do
in my
original
vaccinity
of no
distance.
Clouds and thunder
collapse into my
deepest core. Tearing
me there at non
acceptance. I tear my
poems. And throw them
into the abyss. Of no re
turnin'.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
. . . of incantations in
cantankerous philosophy!
Of these lying liabilities,
what startling objection, so accosting,
has exhausted me? More so than
named quite unfortunate atrocity!
Shall hordes of thought be accursed
by degrees of displeasing hostility
such that satiated curiosity
be evermore abashed in me?
“. . . but I have admonished thee,”
said he,
this subtle, blackened tenant
with a tin man's tonality.
This paper drum that bends to sing
does beg of him the courtesy;
yet, acrid rhetoric singes the hair
with unfavorable flintlock fidelity.
His evasive guarantee then
upends the pores relentlessly.
*“These words will compel a poor
foresight to bleed in the fray
as cascading tears cast their weight
upon cheek in dismay . . .”*
. . . to quash the cypress toxin
of a caustic potpourri—
a dissembling toupee
to one's balding reality.
O lasting opacity
of such poignant translucency,
this flagrant serendipity,
once spawned, must always be?
Possibly; though, I cannot count
how many sets see dawns at sea.
“. . . but I have astonished thee,”
said he
through this Möbius rebuttal
like some soap on TV,
though, it’s ne'er some rerun
what’s cliché wants creativity.
The veiling lee of his lofty marquee
beclouds that one pyrrhic mystery—
that now-clandestine oblation
of one bless'ed unanimity.
*“Akin to a twin whose soul’s
one sin was mine to portray.
‘I’ll pay ne’er a thought!’
curs’ed common naïveté . . .”*
. . . and yet, that's cause to bend
reverent knee, not to thee,
but to that which mine
eye's sole endeavor is to see.
“So, leave me be!”
I lament, ostensibly,
“Lest that passage fall paved
by none other than me.”
Perhaps the Second World war
is just my cup of tea.
“. . . or perhaps this darkness is me,”
said he
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
the instant, the instance, is that your body?
the clear cleansing storefront windows
ask for clarification.
is that your body, presently?
is that your body presentably?
just in that secular instant, again, over,
the body’s inquisition clarifies, asking,
requesting in a babel of foreign languages,
repeat after me!
each window pane that follows repeats the query,
the themes in each, tiny variations,
the variables of rhythm, timbre, harmony,
engine timing minute minutiae alterations,
in that passing milli-instant,
each a separate instance for each separate pane.
in every instance. in every language.
the accusations tonality oscillates in wavelength pitch.
quest nonetheless similar,
is that your body?
all the replies are mirrored reciprocal.
that was my past.
this my present.
the next, a future vision.
the here, the now, all of it, each a flashcard.
the insistence!
*when your body falls finally upon
the sidewalks concrete filthy city Persian tapestry,
the shameful answer tastes always the same.*
always the same.
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 8:50 AM UTC
Summary of Today
PREFACE
An artist of most kinds can concur
the imperial dynasty of ruling
with Absolute Control of the medium from a higher mind
Tapped in vessel flows the beauty of free form
I like this vantage point over my domain
Here I prefer to remain, power of my dominion
dominates through me to give ordered direction to my artistry
SYNOPSIS
I wonder what undercurrent pulled me to write with such Tonality
It appeared to be centered in the Theme of Revolutionary Rebellion
some kind of Helter Skelter Warning with Sincere Stance boldly stating
my Position in the light of things to come, coming, arrived and waiting
ADDITIONAL NOTES
I have recently reclaimed my power of authority over my body
Body and Mind being facets of the same Gemstone that is me.
I had been in a being state, a child feeling, for a period, not quite able for autonomous activity
I studied closely, learning about this being, but recently have claimed Adult Control
I believe today was a loud coming out party for my Adult, in Control, Ready
Values in Check, Convictions in Check, Energy in Check, Child snugged in tight,
Protected she will come along and see what her future self is all about
...And it will be Good.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
I sit at my computer
And stare at the screen
Enveloped in the monotonous repetitions running through my head
Words of doubt and fear
And sometimes joy
All in a single tonality
Leaving my emotions meaningless
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 10:07 PM UTC
No.
I say no
To the things you say.
But also, more importantly,
How you choose to say them.
With the distance of tropical rains
And foreign tongues of tonality
Trees of exotic grains
Moist with fragrant oils
You speak as though you're unfulfilled
An empty field of fallen flowers
Full of lost beauty
A shame.
You once spoke like spring,
Rain upon my roots
No.
I say no,
Not anymore.
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 10:41 PM UTC
expect a change
with the free range exchange
a change in tonality
a strange irrationality
back to basics
and acids
to the tests
with the litmus
wooden language
tries to wipe away the past
ends up leaving traces of the past alas
names mean nought
when they think we bought
that stairway to heaven
they must forget the zeppelin
focus here a bit on the hour of eleven
we won't try to **** it
nor try to spill it
just keep it quiet
continue the riot
wondering why patriot
doesn't rhyme with riot
the sloth will know
as the deer taps his toe
so too will the earth
and the sea
and the sky
no matter how obscure
we will let the ambient data endure
wooden language
tried to wipe away the past
ends up revealing its gold alas
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
safe & sound in sounds beloved
<>
*in a chalk dust soft whisper, barely bit more than an
eyelash fluttering tonality, she requested her playlist,
favoritism shown, partial to certain poems, poet,
safety in the sounds of familiarity, melded into verses and poems
“works,” how she nat/notated them, smiling,
for they were not works, but labors, safe sounds,
on a palette synthesized from emotive words coloring all of
her drumming, thrumming skin beating, eyes singing,
lips tingle reverberating, echoing my weeping
I read her the collected, the sure ones, made to eye-tear, her lips,
pleasure poutiest before turning corners upward,
in a haven’t-smiled-for-awhile,
a plush blush so pale red, pores of pavé chips of rubies glistening
each in a tearful diamond setting
one more stanza to remember, mark the page, the collective
of this moment,
what shall we call it, this essence of timing of
lifetimes glory glorious;
a hallelujah crossover, suggested, hints of death after life, no,
I nod, no, vociferously
gifting it to her as a quiet,
safe and sound,
safe in sounds beloved, words, beloved,
beloved for being loved and she, beloved*
10/08/19
nyc
early morning
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 11:07 AM UTC
Suddenly the humble
There is one eye again
Smears
Smoothly down and quick
Spaced
The silent teeth
Graveyard slabs
All scared to white
Bright full-moon night
Glaring like a naked bone
Water taps and drips
Shaped so perfectly cold
This bleakest of light
Casting long and sharp and deep
The wailing pathetic
Are silver shards of shapes
The graveyard owl screeches
This must be someone's dream
Nowhere to go
Still strong currents pull
The places of despair
Towards and away
The tonality of moods
Warming layers
Blending with the background
It's nobody's business
A sigh that trembles
Lives balancing on whims
And then a silver-grey sky
Soaring on a song
The grace of an artless child
Smiles your eyes to smiles
The crystal tumbling stream
hallucinations of diamond water
The endless beginning
Sliding on rolling moments
Changing even truth
Even truth
By Phil Roberts
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 4:42 PM UTC
There is a wound that sits behind the eye
Triad tonality, a fearsome sigh
Plucks a ****** chord
Lyric’d by the word “why?”
Acid fingers grin in lust
Anticipating another ****** into the belly
Of time gone by
Hot skin taut and merely waiting
For suicides to release their hands
In the chain their concert makes
Eternities in some hellish waste lived in only seconds.
How strong the forces are!
So steep a severing blow!
Still fresh a carrion scar, festering miles still to go
To beset the pinkest eves
This blade of regret
Within a greater narrative,
Tiny little vignettes
Armed in fashion of drunken odes
Those promises sworn to keep
Accompanied by such pathos woes
Accoutered, finally, in weep.
Brandished when it’s not so fresh:
This minor paring of my flesh
Gleaming in the summer laughs
To caterwaul my gaff, or plural if you like
The humor undercuts enormity
Or screams on shafts in biting breezes
This lived-in clime
I, this prey, displeases.
Unsheathed, the memories, in jovial acts of war
Besiege, beleaguer, the since-immured
True blood and guts long-since obscured
By friendliness, camaraderie
Intentions jester-pure
Trick suppressing-shields raised, jaundiced wills will not deflect
No blade or arrow of regret.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
you scare me, a hidden gem
i am afraid of what could happen
i wonder where you walk and i wonder what you think
has the cross corrupted you
who has turned you so cold
i will be there when you get your wings
and the soothing echo of those classical sounds will pass
into a new choir of faith and acceptance
maybe then when all becomes bright, i will see your eyes
for what they truly are
a black ocean with enough depth to deceive me
into thinking i am only stepping into a shallow pool
a bitter tongue with the tonality of an angel
you can rest your voice as the tears take over
dómine fili unigénite, iesu christe,
dómine deus, agnus dei, fílius patris,
qui tollis peccáta mundi, miserére nobis;
qui tollis peccáta mundi, súscipe deprecatiónem nostram
i will be with you until you find yourself
if you are lost
i will be lost with you
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
Suddenly the humble
There is one eye again
Smears
Smoothly down and quick
Spaced
The silent teeth
Graveyard slabs
All scared to white
Bright full-moon night
Glaring like a naked bone
Water taps and drips
Shaped so perfectly cold
This bleakest of light
Casting long and sharp and deep
The wailing pathetic
Are silver shards of shapes
The graveyard owl screeches
This must be someone's dream
Nowhere to go
Still strong currents pull
The places of despair
Towards and away
The tonality of moods
Warming layers
Blending with the background
It's nobody's business
A sigh that trembles
Lives balancing on whims
And then a silver-grey sky
Soaring on a song
The grace of an artless child
Smiles your eyes to smiles
The crystal tumbling stream
hallucinations of diamond water
The endless beginning
Sliding on rolling moments
Changing even truth
Even truth
By Phil Roberts
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 5:52 AM UTC
Suddenly the humble
There is one eye again
Smears
Smoothly down and quick
Spaced
The silent teeth
Graveyard slabs
All scared to white
Bright full-moon night
Glaring like a naked bone
Water taps and drips
Shaped so perfectly cold
This bleakest of light
Casting long and sharp and deep
The wailing pathetic
Are silver shards of shapes
The graveyard owl screeches
This must be someone's dream
Nowhere to go
Still strong currents pull
The places of despair
Towards and away
The tonality of moods
Warming layers
Blending with the background
It's nobody's business
A sigh that trembles
Lives balancing on whims
And then a silver-grey sky
Soaring on a song
The grace of an artless child
Smiles your eyes to smiles
The crystal tumbling stream
hallucinations of diamond water
The endless beginning
Sliding on rolling moments
Changing even truth
Even truth
By Phil Roberts
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 4:28 AM UTC
It's been months since I've last been
The water took the melody line
And destruction became the harmony
Leaving dissonance in its wake
And trees bent to play that
Minor tune
Mud rose inch after inch,
Outlining the beat of this
Soaked symphony
It's in duple meter
No scratch that, it was in triple,
The tempo was about 200 waves per minute
The screech of wood scraping
Wood had short solos
With arpeggios
And the sound of sirens and
Screaming crescendoed this
Soaked symphony
The different pitches were so ranged in tonality that people had
No chance to save the time
To pick up things they need
The splash splash splash was the
Ostenato in the background
Perhaps a pedal tone
And the drip drip drip
Made anyone who heard the piece shudder so violently
They were shivering and
Quivering
Like an arrow shot from a now
Thus the effect of the
Soaked symphony
Played in the orchestra pit of Lyons Colorado
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
How is it possible?
That in your eyes...
I have found,
that my music Resonates
As hard,
As the shining of the stars.
Never a human show me
That music can be found
In the warm of mortal arms.
Melodies fly over the skies
When I think, on those eyes.
Now, that the light is just white...
My music has no life,
You took the colors apart.
I can not decorate
The rhythm of your lips.
They faded
and,
I can not paint them.
I can not hold
those hands anymore
Indicating the tempo.
So, I will go find you.
The world that is below
Does not scare me at all
The smell of your dry tears
Is singing me to where I should be.
After I finish my last piece,
I will trust in my ears
and, I will bring you with me.
So, we both shall compose,
The greatest symphony of love.
I have figured out
that If I play this twelve row.
The doors of the underworld
will open, so I won’t feel this cold.
Every night after you closed your eyes...
I have been dreaming with:
dramatic purple
Melodies.
Sophisticated
Rhythms.
And
Lyrics that…
Try to convince me
To forget
Your turquoise smell.
It feels like a dream
but it is so real that
It feels like my music
Now is complete
Without your breath.
Now, I’m here…
it seems like nowhere
Absence of presence
NO tonality
ambiguous personality
Kind of
I’m liking this place…
I see you precious as the last sky that I see in my dreams every sleep,
I take out The purple melody
And I play an elegant transcription of the symphony of my dreams…
You look at me and smile
So we both will be apart…
I will bring you alive...
with my next chorale.
With a Symphony
for 300 hundred souls.
I WILL BRING YOU ALIVE
WITH AN ETERNAL RHYTHM
Every morning, Every dream,
where there is a note
you are with me.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
What was over there
was something complete;
ambiguous
tonality
in contrary,
mayhem.
This is what I told you
malleable—fortitude
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC