Stumbling, stumbling . . .
Under the Paris sparkle, dissolution thrives. The strings play their vibrato; slowly, slowly . . .
The air swings and moves with the fluctuating feelings. And how is she supposed to keep her eyes open?
His voice, his voice . . .
The soft melody treading on water, the delicate blowing.
She floats while keeping completely still; longing, dreaming . . .
Smiling. She dare not look now.
The painting is not through, the man's brow furrowed, she dare not . . . Dare not.
No bad luck is brought upon by the underground. The dirt skipping as she runs.
The melody, the melody . . .
Beyond that of this. The strings, they sing.
Sing.
The leaves a line in that shape, washed out in the background. She tries excavation, but the rain, the rain . . .
No numerology could have predicted.
But he, oh, he has known, but contemplation has kept them apart. Uncertainty.
Amber as bright as the sun. Emerald accenting her beauty.
Singing, singing . . .
Nothing to guess, no words need be thrown across the river.
Play, my child, she is flying.
Strum, my child.
Though you do not believe, that whisper will always be.
Throw away the black charcoal, smash the rainbow instead.
Make the sky explode with beauty.
Singing, singing . . .
© Ashleigh E. Stewart
February 7, 2011