Even when poems lose their long ropes
of slow-time ecstasy, secret themes
to explore, when frittered away all hopes
seem to be, the Midsummer dreams
call for a muse of Grecian urns to echos
thy subtle and secret thoughts
to sing endlessly about Eden’s architect
and midair feather of thy intellect!
Let a muse write you a hymn that can reach
the highest point of sun
and shine like June
in a full lotus bloom
over bone-lazy lake waters
as an innocent, tender age
that longs with pure and free intentions
only for love
and its ashen golden light;
I still remember that song when
we called upon that night
that sparked our sight
with a sunset hope,
encrypted in a trope
that caused all stars to fall
breaking the last wall
of the chipped away selves.
We’ve been cultured in a stoic solitude
and uniformed in tight suits
that makes us silent selfies on city streets,
and invisible travelers
who once turned away from the world
and set the journey through the prism maze
of lost times.
Oh shredded hidden thoughts,
words, phrases and verses;
you are so hard to catch,
but one Summer,
when that day arrives
and weightless soul night departs,
I’ll summon you all
to play on the full moon silver chords
and bring back all meaning lost
to be rhymed with the new life and its accords.

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