Having so much, weight centrifugal of heart - now devoid - yearning. Pale with contempt. Eyes devoid of passion. Days drone dull, hours pass with keyboard clacks while heart aches for dreams imbued. What's had is once but a dream. Knowing well, my lot is others’ dreams beyond compare. How dare I, asking, seeking, hoping, striving. Am I not thankful? Am I of deceit? Where does this longing source? When was its first cry and where does it dwell? Petrichor