The beating heart of my song
is silenced by the static
inside my four lonely walls.
The words rot and wilt
in the absence of a dream,
and the whisper of the rain outside
is the closest thing I have to a choir.
I need the wind to be my pen,
and the sun to be my muse -
the grass to be my paper,
and the moon to be my audience.
How long must I go on
without words to line my soul?