He came like a pulse in a metronome;
ticks in an accurate measure.

"Why are you breathing?" he asked,



"Your music sends an elongated note,

when I am on my cloud of uncertainties,


while I tremble in the complexity of my own bones,


I found solace in your music that resonates,


and it doesn't suffocate inside.

Then I was engulfed in the epiphany,

For your kind assurance that I won't transverse alone anymore" she replied.

There is a rapture in the beauty of his sung words,
Gentle like a ballad on the boulevard.
There were splattered ink on his shoulder blade,
"Rage, rage against the dying of the light"

He isn't Ed Sheeran or John Mayer,
but a guy passionately strumming his guitar,
Not consumed in the clamor of an entrancing glamour,
No one but the epitome of a manly grandeur.