I am quiet like the chimes
That blush on the wings
Of the morning’s billowing breeze
And my voice echoes discreetly
Over the empty valleys
As the whistles from the old, shriveled leaves
Swim their way through the clear sky
Uttering an incoherent tune

I am quiet like the naïve clouds
That decorate the endless sky
Traveling the paths by the long, tedious hours
Singing only silence
Until the hums of the wind
Rearrange the shapes and the positions
Of my arched and aching posture
Teaching me to enchant with the chirping blue jays

But not until I anxiously grasp a pen
And pour my creativities onto these empty pages
My thoughts erupt like an infuriated volcano
And my pen pushes ever so quickly
Like a cheetah racing a shooting bullet
On an outstretched landscape

I am quiet like the wilted crocus
Shrouded in blankets of snow
But not until I flee to Paradise of Words
And express my art upon the bitter steps
I joyfully present my essence
Like a reverent, wise eagle
Soaring over the horizon
Alerting his prey