​Your voice is a symphony,

falling on deaf ears.

The melodious tone,

impossible to appreciate.

The cadences and nuances,

wasted and breathless.

To hear that sound,

a string cortette,

pulling and plucking,

every last string.

The harsh crecendo,

pulling me to the edge of my seat.

I love that symphony.

That melodious tone.

What would I pay to hear?

How far would I search?

I would take my last dime,

to the ends of the earth.

But it falls on deaf ears,

flat and hollow.

It's out of stock,

out of season.

Oh, for that sound to fill,

the stark emptiness of this room.

The longing is to harsh to bear.

The sound to lovely to forget.