Something calm is also chaos.
She’s oblivious to the world.
Something sweet is also sour.
She wishes to rule with her iron fist.
And something intelligent is also dumb.
A world where everything is a grey area.
Everything is a pang of panic; a surge of wonder.
‘Yes? No?’ rings though the rapid pound of the drums.
But, in the end, it’s a swelling urge of solitude.
She’s an aria of wit and opinion without consequence.
Her ballad races the Tour de France without break.
She sways to the symphony of violins, lifting her into the clouds
until the orchestra breaks to the swelling of a
heaving bass, rising and falling
And she wakes up.
Who am I?