I’d like to know each quaver of masked feeling
that lilts past you, as you sit there composing
those measures, with the cadence of grace flowing
through each iota of you, quickly flaring:
creating an allegro of swift longing
for beauty that eludes; but you’re still hoping
though muses fade, and then left with soft yearning:
just an adagio of broken meaning,
I’d like you to find me here, always searching
not for crescendos that wound, but an ending
to your sonata and my lines: our meaning.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2017)

Protected by Copyscape

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