You.

I’m wishing for things I don’t own
And stuck in my own devices
There is a feel and need for
A greater and certain outcome
In truth I know it purely
I see it in gold and silver
The wind as it rustles between
Pages of books on the thrush
And her glimmering tones
Repeating the way of the songbird
Make me realize so much
That I am tempted to avoid
But the moment is longing
And I am so sick of the longing
Maybe there’s more to my vices
Than I take at first glance
There’s a broken chance
That someday my words are heard.

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