Sunday, May 6, 2018

Earworm

A piece of melody, so familiar
Goes round and round,
Stuck in a loop
Once lost, still not found.
The words escape the mind;
What remains, is just the sound.

This yearning to fill
The silence of void
With wordless notes,
Is so wickedly enjoyed
By the forgetful mind
That is truly self-annoyed.

In the hope the song returns,
One can’t think of anything else.
It’s anything but enticing-
This anticipation that dwells
In the heart of seductive
Remnants of incoherence.

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