i will sing of many things as any good bard must do bringing so much to life with only the sound of my voice
i could sing for you, too softly, of a man with daisies braided into long hair and tucked behind ears
would you take these flowers that i have picked even if my hands shake and their true meaning escapes me?
poor little bard, i say to myself, scrubbing tear tracks from pale cheeks always singing of love until his voice cracks and breaks but never truly experiencing it
of course, there’s a certain poetry in the persistence of a wound such as this
though, metaphor be ****** it ******* hurts but there’s no blood to sop up nothing to bandage or splint
and at the end of the night i am still left alone something that feels like your name on my tongue
and i want to tell you so many things like how beautiful you are like how i’m sorry i let this infatuation get so far and grow so large
and i want you to know that a bard with a broken heart will yield no coin but i’ll keep singing for you anyway
because, my love the least i can do is immortalize you
if not in my arms then through words that will survive long after i have returned to the ground and isn’t that worth something?