Oh what songs he might have sung
If he hadn’t waited for the day of his death
To “make and cultivate” the music
As his dream recurred to say.
I see his face in the patterns of
The faded ivy, lace, and ferns
Imprinted on my bedsheet here,
And a tear falls on his nose.
I cry for you, Great Socrates.
I beg you, sing,
Please sing for me.
-jenn long
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