A world composed of stars
might be beautiful,
but would
fade each day at dawnA universe made of music,
might sound divine, but
what remainswhen the orchestra retires, it's instruments mute?
Dreams created by a writer
fill pages; fill books
yet evaporate when the last word is read
A world composed only of you
excludes reality, precludes logicallows room for a single admirer
How fortunate to be the one
thank you Emily Dickinson