I used to write of all the wrongs
Before my measured hand they’d quiver
Of fantasy and silly songs
The finest letters, I’d deliver
I used to type a tapestry
Weaving words upon my loom
The flowers from my calloused fingers
So easily would come to bloom
But now, my ink has all but dried
Your absence slows my lonesome pen
Without you, poems have no meaning
Without you, inspiration ends
I told the tales of mice and men
And girls who grew and came of age
But it’s hard to write in black and white
When color used to grace my page
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