A poem she’ll never be,
the song’s dynasty;
clumsy fervent request;
the damp stain of envy.
(What did that face mean anyway?)
The notes sting the stanza’s grip,
its fiery-tipped spear;
grief’s painstaking shrieks,
violins’ squeals of abject…
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Poet, songwriter, dream inhaler. See the real me here – https://linktr.ee/scottzoselmusic