Music in Me

O singing strings of my violin heart let the vibrant breeze of mellifluous air embrace your deep rosewood skies orchestrated in dulcet warmth…. Childhood can be a connotation of cacophonous tunes, where the sweetest sins hide pain behind a smile. We all have a story to tell, but not all are born to narrate. The poetic portray through poetry, choosing calm over chaos. others wishing if only music could ease away all the pain. Not all songs are as sincere as they sound. I should regret the stranger I welcomed in my heart, who's corrupt, lyrical, crumpled ideas made my soul tired. Each beat left me caught in the riptide of betrayal, where even the weakest waves broke me. I was enamored with being lonely, impersonating a persona of pristine perfection, whilst gazing at pensive gloaming showers, wishing that broken strings of aesthetic violins, would grant me an allaying silent goodbye. The night has a resonant silence, but words within this handwritten letter are too loud. Without background m u s i c I am no longer a prisoner of memories, silently sewing rustic rhythms into a thunderous stubborn heart. I remember storms, when rain washed the paint of fake smiles away.. I was lost in opaque puddles floating like a porcelain paper boat, struck by ruins of lightning at a time when ink refused to bleed. Abandoned in pigments of black notes, your birth changed the palette of the colors of my love. You inspired me to be like melodic flowers, blossoming together in tones of delicate redolence. Now seasonal songs serenade your name, in dawns of estival summer formed rays. I heard my iron heart beat in your melodious laughter, carving fruitful beginnings from the curves of your innocent gaze. Now my poetry and music have meaning, as you're the ink in my pen, the line on my paper. Allowing my quill to weave sincere couplets, between verses and phrases that have substance. Your initials are the warmth of my soul, inspiring me to thrive and survive. My topaz twilight, my purpose, now and hereafter. You are my most precious lullaby. For, what is a tree without branches of succulent leaves? When roots spurting water and blood merge as revitalizing sonnets. Maybe, you are my karmic answer to every prayer I’ve whispered to the moon.