On the Futility of Love Poems

This urge to flex my voice in lover’s tones
will atrophy in whispers of regret;
unspoken rhythms course within my bones
with words of strength I’ve started to forget.
They rise in slow vibrations through my chest
which fills with inhalations from my past.
And when they should be forcefully expressed
they fall in present heavy sighs, morassed.
What future words will rise when these are gone?
Are poets to be prophets of their own,
to linger where their echoes linger on
and flex their lover’s voices all alone?
I wonder then if anyone will hear
my words, my voice.  Am I not being clear?

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