Usually I am not at such a loss for words,
But how easily you plucked that chord,
As if each note were someone else,
And not the song within ourselves.
Tepid I was, for in the moment having not
The skill, nor courage to dare malign,
With my untuned snarls and tarnished bent,
Your offered hymns, too left to silence, then.
Saturday, February 17, 2018
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