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The soul of the wall
The Soul of the Wall
A portrait exquisitely painted on my wall,
Stories that were never told,
The notes, the music, all the risings and falls,
The happiness, and the alluring sorrows—
A story of mine, engraved in gold.
An orchestrated strain of an ebb’s applause,
In the shallow, a cosmic dance slowly unfolds.
The tides have brushed me into statues of stone,
Unveiling my layers, unbestowed upon my calls.
A horrible mural, astounding strokes,
Her demons; out of order, uncontrolled.
Amidst chaos, she is sanctuary;
Among the crowds, she stands upheld.
The soul of the wall…
Relentlessly linked to distance and time,
Repeatedly echoing within her mime,
Battling her dismay from all those crimes.
A horrible kitsch, steering my glance
Off colors that should rhyme.
An ugly cover for my labyrinth… heart-piercing holes,
The colors so dark, withholding no hopes.
She governs my cosmos—
Is she fable? Is she proud?
Is she the woman who painted the walls?
A celestial resonance in my land of arrogance,
Heart scattered pieces, their tombs so cold.
A cosmic haven in her tranquil soul,
The core frozen, hands of ice to hold.
A powerful grace deciphered my being,
They told me the secrets of all their doings.
A light of gold has healed my soul,
And with a Moonstruck kiss, my heart has stoned
