← Back to all poems

MOONLIGHT COMPOSER

By Vera Von Monika

In the hush of silver hours,
fingers trace the curves of night,
weaving whispers into chords
that tremble under the stars.

Every pause, a breath suspended,
every silence, a note unclaimed.
The world bends beneath the arc
of melodies no ear has heard,
yet every heart recognizes.

Hands glide like shadows,
shaping light into invisible harmonies,
and the moon leans closer
to watch the symphony unfold.

Time fractures, recomposes,
each second a prism
splintering sound into memory,
memory into longing,
longing into the quiet pulse
of a soul conducting itself.

No crescendo shouts;
no drum demands.
Only the tender insistence of presence,
the gentle insistence of being,
carving beauty from stillness,
painting the night with invisible keys.

And when the dawn threatens,
it waits for the final note,
a soft release,
a sigh through the veins of the world,
leaving only the trace of music,
and the ghost of a composer
who played moonlight into life.

← Back to all poems