My voice will ne'er begin to sing
Songs with grace that operas bring.
My hands will ne'er begin to draw
Portraits of the utmost raw
Of feelings.
Reelings of a film un-made
Left in my mind as shades of grey
That will indubitably blend
To make nothing.

I wish to make amends,
though shades of grey have doomed me.
My pessimism consumes me,
but I wish to make amends.
I guess it all depends
If the Talents fly back home
To visit me again.