Golden Shovel

The meticulous melody of my musings is she. Quietly my quill inscribes intrinsic ink upon the paths she walks. Profoundly postulated in poems I've portrayed her in - she's inspired ingenious imagery of beaucoup beauty. I ponder without her what my life would be like? With determiners of this, that, these and those, she is the one who guides like an orchestra of street lights at night. In times of silence I wonder what she is thinking of when gazing at blue horizons that appear cloudless, as her exotic eyes always crave for calming climes. There is no measure in the pleasure of her treasure and her artistry on a blank canvas turns stanzas radiantly starry, so I croon a tune hoping to be the moon under her serene skies. Yet not all lullabies of lovers can ease a melancholic mind and sometimes it's difficult to write lyrics making sense of it all. Not all verses compliment strings with an instrumental that's an emotionally unbalanced mix of tones not seen as the best remedy in episodes of rage - so I wonder what becomes of tranquillity when her tempest temper turns her thoughts dark. I regret those forgotten promises lost in broken symphonies and until sanity soothes with words of softness, I'll hold onto all that is bright. She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Lord Byron – She Walks in Beauty