A clumsy girl wearing a leather skirt blind by suppression and fear was not available to see directly through the eyes of a gentleman ignored at first side by her on a reunion place under the light of night. The moon following to that night was out as brilliant as a diamond reflection toward the sunlight. A flashback of the evening projected three gentlemen were coming from upstairs of a castle lost in the sheen of the night which lines suppression on a division of objections. One of the gentlemen represented a bluebird reflection, the other an angelical objection and last but not less the third gentlemen resemble a flower of suspicion. One of the lines directed to one of these gentlemen was freedom as a definition of beauty, an image of himself. Subconsciously the girl was asking herself. What if his eyes reflect mine? What if his voice surrounds me with his vibrant smile? What if his serious pose delights my senses? What if this is a dream? Following to uncertain questions, a bluebird sang all night proclaiming the uniqueness of the angel’s right side. It was a sign of destiny which awaken her heart. An angel full of a divine power that no one could resist was on the line. The bird sang and sang to the angel proclaiming his beauty as a rejection to hate-tread giving a marvelous force full of love. The angel on his other side had a beautiful Hibiscus flower. The flower beauty was stoning even though it doesn’t last long on a different self. The real self and color portrait on the flower decorated the angel on his left side. One flower which was a garden that wanted to camouflage all love coming from the angel with an assortment of smells, but the angel was so pure that not even the flower smell changed the vivid beauty of the angel freedom and love persuasion of life.

“Two gentlemen flashlight the angel that mind and voice delegate art and poetry,” her mind said.

If she were that bird, she wouldn’t leave his side. If she were that flower, her perfume would be part of his velvet skin. She wanted to get lost under his skin. She needed to get lost under his skin because his skin was like a delicate platinum shell pure of serenity. His eyes were the window to love. His mind the wisdom of life. A genuine hope behind all satisfaction toward dreaming ideas written as a fairytale.

“Let me be in your arms as long as the moonlight shine. Let me be in your arms as long as the time pass. Let me be in your arms as long as the needles sewn a poetry of love living as a birthmark in every glimmer of my skin purifying my soul making ashes all sorrow behind. Let me be in your arms until love sacrifices relay on the deepest darkness of my heart covering loneliness with a companion,” she said.

“A darkness that proclaims your eyes reflects mine. A darkness that announces your voice surrounds me with an angelical smile keeping me alive. A night that declares his serious pose to delight my senses making this dream my all. Clarity comes in a kiss under the glitter of the stars with a full moon in the deepest royal blue of the sky looking like a painted bay on a canvas of life with a Rainbow of the night full of flashing colorful lights that pass through under the moonlight. What a beautiful scene of love portraits in so many ways from a walk on the sand to fly on a night of a piano’s play which overwhelms every inch of myself. What if I want to keep dreaming? What if this life continues being a rolling coaster full of ups and downs in which the highest pick is the climax of the drama under my skin? What if my sight blinds under his shell? What if the night became the mantle that warms me up? What if the angel light is the key to my heart? In a song once said the emotion doesn’t have a voice. If the real love does not have a voice, what is the meaning of love? Is it missing the breath under the light of the full moon? Or is different vague ideas measure on a cocktail of chemicals that tergiversate your brain stability? Is it a drug? What is it? Since I met him not even romanticism had an explanation; I argue to myself thinking why I think over and over about him? Is he a gift of life? What an angel of love proclamation and identification!” She said.

Claiming for more attention his eyes dutch hers leaving as crystal clear the full meaning of joy, life was not all seasonal if not dimensional. The way the lights and color contrast placed in life describe joy diversion. Like a painting on a wall, this angel was a vivid art piece that exhibits life at the fullest on a beautiful bird’s song. “I love his wings. I love the soft light that radiates from his skin. I like his life view reality and loyalty towards happiness. Let’s proclaim love his doing. “Let’s proclaim love his destiny,” The bird sang. I agree with not rejection claims the flower with its perfume.

Today the Angel is written in her soul. Today the music is the poetry that portraits her infinite feelings of love. Today her nights are not longer in sorrow because the warm light of the angel is on her guard. The light that the moon neither the sun has. The light that irradiates from his voice. The light that illuminates from his eyes. The light that illuminates from his smile which knocks down all scary thoughts with his tender words. If it is not loved, what love could be? If she were not me, who would I be?

By Odra Marcano