Memoir in D minor.

Readily,

my heart races to its end.

–

I have had the love,

that churned to bitter,

and the calm that became the storm.

–

Sincerely,

my mind sets into cumbersome.

Toiling at its weave.

–

Dust devils whip their tails,

singing to deceive.

My very soul entangles ease,

with every falling tease,

of endless nights

and sorrowful days,

that embody the being

I will die in.

–

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