An acoustic mourning
Dawn of the romantic minded
New notes emerging
A crispness wet with dew
Still just a song no one will hear.
Singing to yourself,
Much like talking to oneself
Surely an impression of artistic insanity
At the least emotional exhaustion
At the most?
I’ve lost the language of lovers
For lonely linguistics
Time, however, perpetuates
With or without my permission
Like music to someone else’s ears.