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Every ounce of me wants to write for you
But I can't
Something will not let me.
So I sit awe struck
Dumb struck
Love struck
And search and search and search and search and search and searchandsearchandsearchandsearchandsearchandsearchandsearch
My brain in a desperate, wild hunt for words worthy of writing in your honor
Yet I fear the well is empty.
I fear that the grand fount of creativity has run dry.
That this is what comes of an attempt to write of you is proof enough to me.
Where have you gone, oh Muse?

— The End —