Muted
strings
of
cold
indifference
He
has
composed
many
songs
He
has
plucked
string
after
string
until
his
hands
bled
String
slick
with
red
and
iron
But
still
he
crafts
He
will
always
find
his
song
Sometimes
the
song
is
fashionable
It
lingers
on
the
ears
for
a
moment
Quick
to
flitter
away
into
memory
Or
are
lost
forever
to
the
void
Some
songs
reach
the
deepest
parts
They
are
haunting
and
terrifying
They
come
to
define
our
existence
Uniting
the
strings
into
a
masterpiece
that
lasts
I
don’t
know
what
my
song
will
be
All
I
know
is
that
the
master
still
plucks
And
plucks
And
plucks
And
while
my
song
is
not
yet
finished
They
symphony
plays
The
sweet
melody
of
joy
The
harsh
melody
of
pain
The
wailing
melody
of
disappointment
The
playful
melody
of
youth
And
still
the
master
plucks
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