The heart sings the music of the soul inside--
once harmony, now dissonant refrain:
within the aching hollow, dreams abide.

I revere you with a fervid kind of pride;
you're that purest note I've striven to attain.
The heart sings the music of the soul inside.

We attuned, became duet, intensified--
then stage fright struck; you fled. Here I remain
within the aching. Hollow dreams abide:

each hope a rose with thorns arrayed, allied
to pierce the ardent singer's breast; to drain
the music from the heart of the soul. Inside,

unfinished scores and memories deride,
discordant phantoms shriek to entertain
within the aching hollow. Dreams abide,

an orchestra unled, bereft of guide.
Commingling sun and sorrow, bliss and rain,
the heart sings the music of the soul inside
the aching hollow, where lost dreams abide.