This music is for my ears alone,
a culmination of a cappella notes
which reach a tangibly painful crescendo,
I am ensconced in sky,
light of infinite suns,
whirl by like seeds blessed
by a spring wind.
When this golden thread of solitary sonata
reaches out for a baritone harmony,
there is only silence,
caffled, almost deafening.
I cannot hear the resonation of my alto
from vacuous nothingness.
I’ve never felt good enough,
and there is no heat
no poco a poco
which has travelled light years
to see my skin.
My heart sings
to magnolia walls,
and dying lilies on the mantelpiece.