am I not art

as the wind whistles warm wishes echoing the sea-salt silence flowing beneath silver-kissed waves I think of synonyms for love illustrating hate in elusive rhythm... for stars never envy the moon but silently orchestrate a cosmic choir of coruscating crystals in incandescent cadence swirling confetti across the nocturnal sky~ a compelling commemoration that you and I cherish in technicolor tercets… I ponder why do green-eyed gazers spinning lilac lies within jaded journals along jeweled realms rage with j e a l o u s y? pushing my quivering quill to question: am I not art am I not the muse am I not worthy am I not the ache romanticized with roses... perhaps these words are mere remnants of ramblings ricocheting rhapsodies within the breath of perfumed heartbeats that the kohl-cold souls can never taste... so I purge inked petals upon the digital canvas, that feels not lyrical lifelines bleeding ballads h i d i n g and h e a l i n g behind murky metaphors and alliterative adjectives weaving h o p e amidst the crestfallen sighs of bittersweet horizons…