His intricate hands played art
An hour of oblivious performance
Where sky grey is appreciated
And bright white is not
His C Major of aristocratic aesthetics
And D Minor of minute hymns
Heaven calls his name to play
The peace of mind in misdialed artifact
The seas part as the music sways by
An iron clad woman with the sweetest of voice
That soars through skies like veins of a city
Running in circles and areas of vastness
He continues on
In pitches of high and low
His hands weaving through the night
Playing chords of bright daylight
The shimmering ships land afar in shore
As the rhythmic tides go far and wide
His voice goes weak and quiet still
As his hands stop playing those piano keys.
YOU ARE READING
Blaze
PoetryA collection of songs intertwined in her head that she weaves into a web of intellectual words and let's them flow free in the form of poetry. **actually really cringey poetry that I wrote in the span of a year when I was 14**
