I think my heart is dying
and my pen it writes in rust.
My soul too old, it has decayed
and blown away like dust
I'm losing my ability to take a hand in trust.
I tire of giving, always in a whirl
and try to be your everything
your universe, unfurled.
I'm not strong as you might think
and all I want? You next to me to be,
And so I wait in silent misery,
in prayer you might notice me.
~~Fiddler 11/22/2001
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