The soothing of a Chopin nocturne,

Lulls the sinking of youthful hardness,

For I was winter, expected but rebuffed,

Fastened to a cyclic fickleness,

I loved things for their reciprocation,

Not to love for its existence,

Playing the keys of life out of tune,

If you listened closely melody

Appeared, faint but a whisper was there,

And a hardness not even a romantic, could repair.

Photo by Ryan Holloway on Unsplash

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