She sings to me dearly
And to be weary, oh, I become,
Soothed by the tender paean
Of a songbird still too young
To fill my dreams yet unearned.
And come or no, the sleep futile
Does naught to hinder the imagination,
The creation of a thought brought on
By words placed in a cadence to be sung.
And on I yearn,
Held tightly by a voice angles envy,
A pitch that calls to the dogs of men
And whispers softly the dying wishes
Of those who gave in to dejection.
And it is with affection, I write,
Seeking reprieve from a world
Still wrought with insomnolence.
So save me, oh blissful voice,
And sing to me the song of my addiction.