The sound of perfection
Pure and refined silence.
I struggle to find meaning in the sounds.
To make music is to paint a picture with no canvas.
A lone hand embraces my soul;
Gripping me, carrying me, holding me.
I feel light, warmth bubbles through my heart.
With guidance, I take a breath.
One person, one chance, one breath.
My horn cries from the rooftops.
I am calling for her.
She is gone.
A beam of light sheds down on my tears.
I remember her warmth.
Lips pursed, eyes red, I smile.
With her, I am everything.
Without her, I am nothing.
Once hers, now mine;
The sound of perfection.
This poem is about:
Login or register to post a comment.