The melody is silence
You have nothing to say
and your muse has died
You have nothing to say
and your muse has died
The symphony is a hollow drum
It beats the mundane
and you cannot find your muse...she's passed
It beats the mundane
and you cannot find your muse...she's passed
The orchestra plays without instruments
Empty air unpleasing to the ears
Sheet music only the muse could have provided are now...gone
Empty air unpleasing to the ears
Sheet music only the muse could have provided are now...gone
Oh what pain and anguish is left for the poet with no words...no direction, no touch that lasts.
Oh what pain and anguish is left for the poet that cannot see beauty...that cannot see grace...that longs for the meaningful...without the pain.
His seconds mean nothing without passion nor do his daylights inspire.
I am that poet...for tonight
No comments:
Post a Comment