Topsoil

Your eyes lit up like a bolero
Upheld by the liveliest of castanets.
Mahler himself would have marveled
At the symphony that was your stare.
Notes then dripped off the score
In the fashion of ink from a pen
Grasped by tortured fingers.

This caution waltz carried on.
Only in my mind was I dancing,
Step by step, invoking the music.
My heart was a bud, blooming
In the solstice of sheer entropy.
Days of wandering the rustic plains
As a seed, cased in dust, were over.

With two hands outstretched,
We then seized the constant,
Bustling mess that haunted us
Throughout our waking life and damned it
By method of artistic digestion.
We trapped the world in melodies,
And, by proxy, it belonged to us.

In time, we grew weary. Features fell
With the descending sun;
Scowls rose as stars aligned.
I pondered the possibility that I
Had sown this all from the thread
Of a tangled mind, wrought with weeds.
The rhododendrons seemed to smile back.

I realized, though, that I was foliage.
I had no roots to call my own-
Possessing no rhythm in this heart of mine.
Silence turned me back into the dirt
I was when we met. It was easier then-
Just a layer of soil with no pattern or swing:
A noise... nothing more, nothing less- free.