A long and lonesome wait.
The waiting for the dance of two.
An entwined fate, infinitely distanced.
To stand-up is to desire for dance.

I know who, the daemon, the dancer.
The moving words, a monologue.
Heard songs a reminder of silence.
The rhythm plays out of tune.

The sound, no longer flat.
Yet the ears are presumed deaf.
The pitch transcendental.
My garden over the hill.

A pain let and a cry felt.
The responsibility of insignificance.
Walled green, suffers and broods.
Flowers, just are.