Absence makes the heart grow fonder
Or so they say, for I have forgotten
Three loves lost, never to be found
Yet, I have never even grasped one
But now, alas, here I am again
Walking under continuous chanting
A spell or curse, somehow pleasurable
Contenting, yet still a heavy burden
This poem may be a bland one to some
Even to me, its author, who hath none
To give or take, to write about, in no form
But absence and loss itself, merely those
That inspire, no, force me to write
About my feelings and my lack of them
True love soon to be lost and recovered
A philosophy so strong better untold of
Where am I going, I write about nothing
Yet something tells me, from my mind
That nothing, is something to write about
I guess I have so little but something at all
