Page 1, Shakespearian sonnet written in iambic pentameter. It's pretty self-explanatory.
While nothing ever erases the past,
The future casts a shadow that’s so deep.
I’ve never known a good thing that would last;
All of my cherished moments make me weep.
Yet I find hope that lingers in one voice.
(I’ve heard this voice perhaps only four times.)
The notes are soft; not perceived as mere noise,
But rather as the breeze through brass wind-chimes.
The feathers now are falling from the sky,
The sidewalks open up, now paved with grace.
No caution; I am tempted now to fly.
The shapely clouds remind me of your face.
I never held a memory so dear,
But now I may have everything to fear.
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