I wonder if the waking symphonies will mourn the voice no longer heard, a melody now lost in the stinging odor of untimely age.  If no one was there to hear the hymns of beloved, was a song lost before it ever existed?  I can hear the ragged streaks of broken pitch smeared along the measure stretched from one infinite to the other.  The soul of a morning song has been struck by the blunt force of dull frost, a force only understood by its creator.  The wind rests uneasy as it adjusts to the obstacle of a withering ballad.  An anthem never to be heard other than by the roots retired deep within the broken foundation of which the uninked pens and pillow stuffers are perched.  Can it feel the shards of stiff loneliness slice through its undone rhythm?  Or has he already been molded into winter by the heart that beats to the melody of his disoriented warmth.