The piano in my soul
rains, sometimes, sweet-bitter notes,
conveying tears into poetry.
Blue violins, my eyes,
donât need a voice, theyâre storming
the deepest chords of regret.
Thunders and drums
into my chest, unquietly chanting,
unapologetically disharmonic
when beaten by life.
Weâre symphonies
created to march upon a desert,
able to fly down the infernos
for a song of fire.
What sings to ...
