untitled poetry

I started up the engine

having stripped myself of rage

opened up the chords of longing

simply to stare at a blank page./

Crisping through the melodies

to find a song for you

infest my mind of all the thoughts

of playing it in tune./

But I need you to pen the words

if the song is to be played

’cause in the end it won’t make sense

emptied of your aid.

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