Solitairiness

Today the melancholy surrenders,

 infront of the bond between you and I. 

For the ocean, it is the color blue,

between its crests and troughs. 

Bonding the love and self in one string. 

For the tree, it is the leaf and the branch, 

bonding the pride of its existence 

by its veins; the self and self's. 

A bond between two 

nubivagant halves 

of an existing self. 

For the seasons, 'tis as tight as 

the one betwixt September rains 

and October winds; a gradient in the self. 

For the artist, it is the tangerine 

of yellow and orange; so beguile. 

The crimson of red blending 

consistently into the hues of saffrons.

 For the poet, it is the heart-touching connectivity

 between the metaphors and similes of poetry. 

To hold the hands of one, and scream

 to the next half of itself, of how beautiful 

the poetry they've created together is. 

For the marionette, it is the bond

 between its strings and rhythm. 

Waving in the air to say a hello

 to people who listen keenly for smiles in disdain. 

For the musician, it is the beauté 

between the raga of the song

 and the tone of his voice, 

with his expressions tightening the bond.

 For the umbrella, it is the warmth

 between the hands of the holder and its handle, 

bonding as if they will never go apart, afar. 

For the magician, 

it is the string between his wand 

and the brim of the minds her audience. 

For the nature, 

it is the bond between the bonds in itself 

and the eyes in her mind. 

With the self, every poetry will surrender, 

every art will stagnate,

 every tune will vibrate, 

every person will meditate, 

every sorrow will disappear,

to become a soul that never weeps 

because of whom one is, instead feels 

in the depths of one's heart, 

"You are alive."

 Perfectly. 

Completely.