The Great Silhouettes
Then the poet stopped from making any poem
His mind was out for a little more word
A truth of anhedonia of his world
Giving up on his one last worthless hope
If this world was too busy on its own
Is there still voice for this very little noise?
When he sangs the song, did anyone listen?
When he wrote the lyrics, did anyone read?
He made an artwork, did anyone see?
There, dancing gracefully, did anyone please?
They are the greats of the unsung
That almost none has recognize
And I'm afraid if they fall apart
The time they choose to throw away their art