5,4,3,2,1

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.

 

 

 

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