There has been no word brought to mind
That serves to set a heart at ease,
That could calm tempestuous sea.
My fingers rest on darkened keys
Beneath a cloud of pregnant black
To find words there, beyond my lack.
The stories that you’ll one day find,
Have gathered there to be made known,
A broken truth; to heal, to hone.
To find the man that time will freeze,
I dare not play his symphony.
Without ‘it’: I, a timpani.
When did I become the herald–
Broken record Scott Fitzgerald?
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