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.
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