Not to Name

Under a cloudy sky of dreams,
My voice is made of water,
And my spoken words are the waves.
Song is rhythm and conflicts,
Like the ocean.
But I am not the ocean.

In a moment, man is conceived,
Out of endless undulations
Of ecstasy.
Thus, a creature of rhythm is born,
In a moment of limitless agony,
To toil endlessly
Under a cloudy sky of graying dreams.
He is simply a phoenix, laughing in delirium
While the insomnia of songs scatters him
Amidst the ashes of random thoughts,
Wondering how far beyond the horizon
He can expand his chaotic vision.
But I am not the vision.

I am simply someone
With an immeasurable longing.