who whispered metaphors into his blankets
in the dead of the night. he pǝuɹnʇ them
over and twisted them and s t r e t c h e d them
searching for the melody that would define him.
what he didn't know is that his ears were traitors;
they rejected every rhyme without a trace of shame
and never allowed him to realize that his melodies
were real music, were beauty and love woven
into delicate threads; he only heard cacophony.
night after night he struggled and agonized
never satisfied with any combination of notes
always concluding that he was inferior to the world.
on the other side of the fence, close and far away
a girl with with stars in her eyes cried; her tears
were of the purest silver, the plainest pain.
she cried for verses lost to the valley of her strife
for missed opportunities and bro/ken hearts of iron.
their paths strayed along the leafy jungle of time
l i t t e r e d with normalities. she laughed and he smiled
and few souls knew the existence of her shining tears
or the music of the melodies he composed.
but Fate had other plans; she cackled as she stitched
a pattern that would c-o-n-n-e-c-t their paths,
a pattern that would allow her to hear his music
a pattern that would allow him to read her verses
to collect them from the depths of her struggles.
so here she is, a girl with stars in her eyes
writing a clumsy verse rescued from her spirit
to tell a boy who is afraid of the world
that the metaphors, the melodies of his soul