The sea is its own fish,
escaping from God's soup dish.
The water body ravages against the sky,
ripple mountains, fevered flight.
Seashells are its novelties,
it adheres to no pleasantries.
The sea is a beautiful dreamer,
a storm barreled in ferocious anger.
Storms that tear man made ships,
and waves that conquer the soul
in their softest whips.
She was the day.
That inexplicable warmth that poured over my skin and melted away the frost that had collected in the shadows. Her eyes hid behind the curtains, glowing in peace― I, the inferior poet, call out to her. The melody of her laugh rings through the cage in my chest and raptures the sadness that silences my canary heart. It is a laugh that grows inside the Loved, it is rich and bathed in gold. The Sun holds her with high prestige, the trace of his fingers in her smile as she sang the hymns of his lyre. She’d sing the heaven’s part, and I must’ve cried, because that warmth returned to me through streaks over my cheeks. They burned my lips, like melting wax. It was an bitter taste I was willing to hold in my tongue ― she was too beautiful to look away.
She was the moon.
Her whispers tap along my...