Those poets talk of something I but dimly feel
Yet, though clouded in darkness, I know there is something hiding
In the heart of silence, something whispers to me
Within every hair, fibre and nerve, I sense its presence
Its existence is subtle yet powerful, unseen yet omnipresent
Why does it hide? Why won't it show itself proudly?
Often I forget its there altogether, and despair consumes me
Those poets write with eloquence and grace, yet I write crudely and with roughness
But it doesn't matter, all words dissolve in its presence
And we are all of the same source
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