Something turning and burning to come out,
Something churning inside my own very soul,
Something now living and dying to be heard;
Surely tis both the writers boon and burden.
recapitulation of the soul
From where does it come,
And to where does it go?
Nobody really knows,
Blow after blow,
As unsightly minstrel sings.
Something is here, hidden in the dark,
Something more than reality so stark,
Something to mark all of wasted time,
Something betraying poor heart’s crime.
And it shows,
And blows in with the wind,
And sends me to my knees.
Ah! But what is this that so burns and churns?
What is this that churns inside my very soul?
What is this that lives to die in being heard?
What, this back-burden with lack of heart boon?
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