Serenity is the birds

in the trees

with colors I’d never known,

against a most saddened landscape.

Bruised mauves, ghosted gold..

 

I had not known solitude either—

for all its weary grief—

could be so rich;

was what I needed most:

an unsettled feeling that lies

upon your lungs like Tartini’s devil,

a world both dead and ancient.

 

Serenity is the stillness,

where just beyond

lies chaos, and nothing but,

tucked in bed like a child.

 

Serenity,

this bliss,

is an unexpected visit

at the bookshop.

Had I met her eye, she’d have known our lover.

 

it is frozen fingers that bleed,

and teary eyes,

and thousands of miles

from all I have known.

 

Dismay—

and truly being alone.

Serene

​​

​​

— A.M. Sención

02.2025