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~*~Unsung~*~Her passion was to sing. She,in a way,felt it was everything. Yet, somehow,she'd lost; The sound... For all of it's profound; Relations. The music; Blurred. Hauntingly stilled;Unstirred. At at halt-finding fault-In her Notes that at once could pound, To the drumming of her spirit... Seemed to resound;Into chords of Nothing. How,then,could anyone deny; The jilted cry for her passion? Something that was merely hers, To supply. In darkness;Without reply. The anguish... Of thinking her song would fall short-Unable to import- The meaning behind the passion. So coveted;Longing support... Of the song;So long unsung and unheard... Not spoken,nor forgotten,every word. To sing once again when a bird; Of faith comes calling. Will there be flying or falling? Alone where the notes are hung. Alone;As hearts are swung... In a balance of tribute to a song yet to be sung... Shall we ever hear it? ~*~G.M.Key copyright2004~*~ Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem |
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