Untitled
Words, rhythm and rhyme, music of the soul..,
Nursing the spirit.
Uplifting, haunting...,
Being not only our conscious but our soul.
Yet, untitled, is it a wayward child?
Unwanted, uncared for, lost and alone
With no one to call it's own.
Unnamed is it anything more
Than a passing thought searching for it's home.
Untitled sometimes a number instead of a name..,
As if it were only a frame lost in time,
But neither yours nor mine.
Unnamed, only empty words
Of rhythm, rhyme and prose…
Just more music of the soul
Never named and seldom heard.
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