It's often in the chiming wind that I
End up not finding blissful solitude
And straining, striving midst a multitude
Of humming birds and starlets to defy
The concoction my love that you've become
I find myself ensnared.
For songbirds cannot bring to me the joy
Nor starry nights enlighten sullen keep
They are but torpid instruments that weep
Dissonantly, in absence of your touch.
So tell me how I bring my pen to write
And summon notes of passion all alone
When every word is now a hapless plight
And all my notes your absence do bemoan.
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