to the believers. and dreamers.
it is the season of trilling mahogany. of shadow whisperers and tendrils. and the melody of dreams. the sound. so loud. so crisp. blurs... sometimes. carrying a palm. an arm. and belief. we belong. to the land of songs. to the cradle of yarns. spinning. this spool of crimson and blood.
in my memory of gold. the mist of your cello strings sing harmonies to the moon. a bowl of talcum. so tender and labile. i walk. and walk. there are crystals on my palm. believe. the tune of flautists tonight melt into my soul. there is a cry, by the carnival of doves. i miss you so, little city of pearls. your scape of lands, and tempera of gods are ablaze by the alleyway. pattern of steps and prints of feet, playing monopoly with my soul. my beats are yours, you crimson quill. your care and love. and tenderness of touch. the gardens of faith and psychedelic healers are awake in the congress of death. the glint of your rouge. and the sequin of clouds breathe my breath. come back to my heart.
i will hope. till then. in the canvas of oil. patches of threads and the spectacle of fate. the strength to stand, in this ministry of void.
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