Symphonic Somnambulist

There’s her sweet, succulent voice soothing your sorrows in your ear. Like soliloquies, soft sonatas surround your once dark shadows. What compares to the composition of music? Of operatic opposition? Of triads and miscommunication, the minor scales know not what to say when the evening slides away. You’re asleep, though not dreaming. I suppose you never do, just when the sky began to turn white, it rained again misty blue. I’m cold, but not for you. I think of young Amadeus in his prime, he’d never guess I’d turn him to rhyme. We’d could create clever jokes together, near the volcanoes of Italy, I’d be his best symphony. Then, I’d wake up from this dream.