An Appetizer of Implication

“Here is some sustenance to sate the appetite

To abate the hunger, while on the next course – you wait.

 The flavor profile has style, it`s crisp and bright;

A sensual aroma rises, detected, perfected on the hot plate”.

The multitude of main dishes are receiving stylistic garnish.

The dishes are decorated with a sort of intellectual flair;

Their silent notes must flawlessly flare, and brilliantly blare.

The dishes resplendence must be lacquered, as in varnish;

To ensure their presentation is revealed without tarnish.

“Can you sense the appetizer`s implication,

The analogy`s comparison and correlation

(Are the metaphors, which were previously wrote,

Too ambiguous, too arcane, - and too remote;

Or are the mental angles, which are supplementary,

Too elementary – the symbolic juxtapositions rudimentary?)”.

“Does the customer prefer Robert Elliot or T.S. Frost? ...

If the label is not definitive or specific (cryptic),

Does the calligraphy become hieroglyphic?

Are the suggestions (other than the conspicuous) too intense?

Does the creator, and artist, no longer have any poetic license?

… If the appropriate arrangement is altered

(If the rigorous regulations are reciprocated);

Is the fundamental, essential, and indispensable lost”?

On the surface, each dish (thus far) has been delivered

With a simple, satisfying, savory taste of symmetry;

A meek, yet meticulous metrical show of geometry.

Beneath the uncomplicated structures - concepts figured…

… Are intricate suggestions, webs variegated in complexity.

The cook has created many dishes well below his capacity -

Hoping that someone might notice, and fathom his (yet revealed) aptitude;

(Hoping to attain exposure, through an accessible composure)

His true artistic character, remained restrained - concealed, hiding it`s amplitude.

Never has he had desires for obscene opulence or complete celebrity –

His only wishes: his dishes were no longer consider works of levity,

And to receive significant approval, as an actual creative entity. 

“Here is an appetizer, created wearily, in silence and obscurity”.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Anti-venom

She had ambled and rambled, through the reverie and the bramble;

Unaware that she gambled, with something deadly in the preamble.

Her imagination was sterilized, after a few days without any poetry;

She was bitten and paralyzed, by the serpent of complacency – totally.

The apparently virulent venom vehemently affects her mentality,

Seemingly contaminating concoction course through her personality…

(The motions of her art, aren`t easy to forget –

The waves of emotions, which flood the sight

The ink like blood – mud, which soils the white;

The rhymes, like snakes, uncoil then recoil – applying a bite

Of unmitigated evocation – somehow, a beneficial sensation)…

Yet, this infection, in the plasma of her imagination;

Is the medication for the asthma of her pen,

The alleviation of the restraint of her spiritual Zen,

(Like Pythagoras) Her summation, her perfection – ten.

This was, the elision of all her metrical stagnation,

The sanitation of all her melodious formulations.

Her Anti-venom.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Quasar Of A Mind

The mind is sent into the universe to drift;

The images it initially receives, and sights it conceives,

Are distorted and contorted by red shift -

Still every conception it perceives, it diligently retrieves…

The ingenuity set out on an intergalactic expedition,

To perform some astrology and cosmology;

(Exploring the extragalactic) with full intention,

To correct the course of the psychology.

It lifted past the troposphere, stratosphere, mesosphere,

Thermosphere, and exosphere – far beyond the atmosphere;

Leaving the local super cluster and the nine planets behind.

The mind would muster all the ambition, in the hopes to find:

Some new intellectual inspiration, and profound luminosity;

On a stargazing migration, travelling with extreme velocity.

The mind traveled at “impossible speed”;

Faster than light, it would somehow exceed.

It was moving so rapidly that constellations, and heavenly bodies fused;

Yet, to decrease the speed of the vision, it would not – it simply refused.

All of a sudden, it saw the flash from a supernova;

The dying star ahead, (instantaneously) became a black hole.

The conscious felt like a sort of universal Casanova,

Penetrating this beautiful rift ahead was its sole and only goal.

The mind didn’t think twice, and was inside,

And on an awesome current it would ride.

The consciousness felt this excursion was orthopraxy,

As the hole lead him to a whole new-found galaxy.

…By mediation, the mind found astronomical focus;

By dedication, it arrived at the galactic locus.

   

In zero gravity, in dark matter, a gaseous nebula appears;

The electromagnetic spectrum shifts, and the red soon clears.

Before the mind, in the seemingly formless cloud;

An indescribable structure - is hidden in the shroud.

The conscious found this distant quasar,

And collected its treasures like a bursar –

Finally, it returned to the corporeal essence,

Where the imagination has achieved quintessence.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Perfect Period on Paper (Triple P)

There will never be another moment in time like this –

This second when two sets of eyeballs became one.

With passing iteration, the last – is more so missed;

Yet, it is cemented in this verse - to never be undone.

Like the way our urban scene appears in the solar glare,

The architecture rising high into empyrean –

Into the firmament, adorned in cerulean.

Each (currently) modern edifice, which is so massive,

Standing like a titan in the elements totally impassive;

The stone slabs and brick, so inattentive, yet so aware.

The mosaic mural of each passing pedestrian and their countenance…

Native and foreigner, each leaving their own impression –

Another succession in the previous others` procession.

Though their current physical likeness may dissolve,

Each cerebral facsimile, nothing can absolve or resolve.

… On the canvas of the landscape, they leave their eternal resonance.

No matter what the prospective possibilities may convey,

No matter what the impending future may reveal or portray;

This soiree, this occurrence, will never be cliché or passé:

The two optics encountering each other, in this poetic display.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Composition Of New York (2013)

This composition is structured using a bards` verbal precision

(While simultaneously subject to both rejection and revision).

The faces pass, as the words artistically pile;

The rhyme is transparent, as glass, so is the style.

The poetry, has been placed into a mental alembic;

Distilling both meter and cadence, until they are rendered perfect.

Each poems` failure or success is never (ever) pyrrhic –

All entries are new opportunities to see what to develop or correct.

Humanity drifts, strolls through this gorgeous modern city;

The metropolis and its allure are not found only in beauty –

This epicenter is precisely like a diamond dug out of earth

(At first glance the element appears covered in soil);

The precious stone has yet to reveal it`s true worth,

Until it is given diligent observation and refining toil…

The eyes must first destroy all the superficial sights

(The concrete buildings, the moving steel, and flashing lights).

The material world, which holds no value, must be shed;

Until the artificial is gone, and only the natural remains.

Then, the true beauty will appear in the eyes (within the head);

The absolute perfections, and gorgeous glimmering stains:

The combination of nationalities, into a new society;

The variation of rationalities, to create one perfect reality.

The growing tress, like the developing people, are different

(Each carrying their own traits and personal characteristic);

And yet, in the physical image (which they will present)

Each reveal their own perfection – pure and intrinsic.

Moving to the face of the sky, which will continuously change

(During its diurnal movements), its clouds and rearrange;

The same way, that at the start of each and every day,

Millions of new appearances (some similar - like the sun) come into view -

Crossing each other’s’ path as each heads their own way,

Creating a blend out of each picturesque, pristine hue:

The shades of dirt, on the face of each buildings` bricks,

The black old bubble gum on the grey concrete – sticks.

Each street lights` tall metallic silver trunk – each column,

The artistic shadows which are cast under the moonlight,

Each dilapidated building (still standing) alone and solemn,

The rays reflected in the mirrored glass (sent by the sunlight),

The loud growling rumble (emanating from a grate) sound,

As commuters are propelled forward – speeding underground,

The scent of different cuisines (which conjoin in the air),

The joy, anger, curiosity, or indifference in a strangers stare,

The destitute vagabond who sulks looking for hope or rest,

The resolute business person giving their profession their best,

Students heading studiously to their different universities,

The ambiance of each street an avenue (and their diversities),

The way each borough represents its own microcosm,

The way each person seems separated by a vast chasm…

(The artist, comparing downtown to an expensive stone

All the visions (on the ground) under Hyperion’s throne)

… And yet, each exists and coexists, in a city which is still in imperfection;

Each object, seeking to detect and erect, their own sense of perfection.

Diamonds hidden among the distractions and muck,

Waiting for someone pluck them (with a little luck).

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Glacial Butt

A cigarette butt is on the concrete – spent;

People step upon the filter, without relent.

The chill of winter is in the October draft,

Howling in the hollow sound reception devices.

Pedestrians are bundled up, against the bitter cold;

Every New Yorker is attempting and fighting, to prevent

Their skin from, becoming akin to the wind – Ariel sent.

The old cigarette is exposed and pregnable -

Like each passing figures`, un-covered, countenance;  

But, despite being trodden, it is stoic in the frigid ambiance.

Two eyes stare at the butt, wonder what is meant

By this vision… Perhaps some abstruse ken is lent?

Observations, into verse, are prepared to graft;

Verbal harmony, which is played, will be inaudible.

Each tercet is slowly drawn together – each splices;

Creating a, rather unexpected, sense of consonance.

In the algid atmosphere – a response, as the poem begins to mold;

The reaction raising, redoubling, the lyrical lines rhythmic resonance.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Under The Weather

In the late morning chill,

The poet surges forward still -

His cold is a test of the will.

Feeling weak, as the body attempts to write;

Forehead is burning and frying the mind,

Insides are turning and tying into a bind,

All while alert and asleep duel each other and fight.

Knowing the creations cannot be allowed to stop,

No matter the state of the mental or physical condition;

He adheres, like a farmer still tending to each crop,

A marriage in sickness and health, traveling toward perdition.

He`s building verses into stanzas – no stopping the developing,

The rhymes in his frozen mind, the rhythm of ice in his veins,

The tundra of dreams (with sleet of imagination) are enveloping;

These actions cannot be confined, to his physical apparatus and brain.

Like a runny faucet - the eyes and nose are dripping;

With each cough, lungs feel as if they`re paper ripping.

Something as simple as end-rhyme becomes a

Rubrics cube - “red/head, blue… what did I say”?

The brain feels totally lost and confused -

The pain is one cost, and it is also fused

With torpor, the total price leaves the flesh abused;

While rest offers a pleasant retreat, there is a problematic confliction -

Which the heart, to the mind, entreats: Isn`t writing asleep a contradiction.

So

He ignores all distractions on this day off;

Including the nose and lungs, which cough.

His flesh is an iron mesh, his bones are tempered steel;

The winds which thresh him, he simply - refuses to feel.

Though the shepherd may have been weakened by a cold;

He still works these words - his flock of sheep

(They represent his verbal herd), and he shall tend to his fold.

His dedication is pouring, waters extremely deep –

Fortitude (to his profession) fill his flesh, his well.

He draws the liquid, from below, bringing it up -

Onto the grassy page it spills, and there it will dwell;

He adamantly refuses not to strengthen and develop.

Remembering a universal truth

Our professional command (rising still – resolute);

Into the heavens (by our will and demand),

Every action must continue to shoot,

And all trials we should weather and withstand.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Death In The Theater

(The man dove into another description…

To the blank sheet – (as always) his life, he gave;

With a feeling the page would become his grave,

Still his hand traced another depiction.)

Starting a new page, revealing a fresh blank stage;

This is where we start the show, under a fluorescent glow.

Each letter plays its part, as we raise the curtains and start:

The setting is a place called New York City

(The time - the director is intentionally forgetting),

As a soul drifts, among the human race –

Inside his mind, he is feeling pretty sh*tty.

He is consumed by this state of emotion…

His tone emanates with the sadness which escalates,

The cause and reason for this is not the gloomy season.

It`s due to the time which has been lost,

As mortals are moments are too few;

And the past is something we can`t mime,

So each passing second carries a heavy cost.

Like rhymes in a bard`s sad lonely song…

Which are slowly fading from everyone`s sight…

Time can`t be written again, no matter how powerful the pen.

His thought is focused on the prior – the past,

To all the dreams – the prey he never caught.

Failed accomplishments, consume his cheer, like locust;

Lost opportunities, make him shiver, like a sudden icy blast.

His ponderings are unfinished – a sudden interjection -

As the audience watches but the ending is incomplete,

Yet - with a sense of puzzling confusion - they are met.

To the shock of their viewing perception;

From the ceiling the curtains begin to retreat,

The play was perplexing, and the curtains - are set.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Poetic Pebble

The tinctures – the repetitions must be continued,

The old end-rhymes restructured and reused

(All the new formulas and old procedures, must be fused),

Until they achieve sublimation and creation is renewed.

The failed attempts (which frustrate, but) are refractions,

Subtractions, adjusting his path to the zenith – by fractions.

On fifty-third and third, the people of an elevated class;

Smile at each written word, (on looking) as the diligently pass.

Those of the poets’ financial section, nod (with a heartfelt appreciation) at his toil.

They share an unspoken connection – like the rows of the auburn and emerald trees,

Which also strive to grow into perfection - our roots under concrete (unseen in) soil.

They (humanity) all form a collection; leaves, on the brilliant boughs, blowing in the breeze - - -

He is finished with the paid play, so his pen begins the true work.

The conceptions are sail off - far away; to attempt and rework

The sights (the glass and steel city), the eyes believe they perceive.

He fights, and writes whatever he can potentially, poetically conceive.

The pen begins the poetic calcination, while invisible smoke rises

From his secret fires’ generation. With beautiful metaphoric disguises;

The illustrious illumination, still remains almost perfectly concealed.

His words slowly simmer and congeal, until honesty sophistry is revealed;

Mercury gives way to iron (steel), yet he already possess gold. This poet is an adept

(Though he seldom appears as such, using “dumb diction”, around his elders and peers)

A master of combining the abstract, to create a common precept…

He is an embarked captain, on the vast sea of poetry, his versified vessel he steers.

His ship is wisely named: “The Stone”, sailing from home (with steady repetitions)

Each day - resiliently sharpening – honing an error in his precious craft.

The verbal boat, is kept afloat through the paces, it`s purity he conditions.

The imitating commanders, are dammed (to the labyrinth) and quite daft;

To attempt (to replicate and) understand - comprehend the cause of his course

(Unless, they have already ascertained the keys – which unlock the source).

… Still none of these concepts or any comment, remains long in his concerns;

(He left behind regrets) as, without relent, the progress and flame still burns.

Outcast, downcast, he lovingly outpours in torrents of inscribed emotions

(Through his constant abstractions), he continues his personal putrefactions.

The captain unloads his entire creative stores, with his daily written devotions.

He attempts to avoid the tireless distractions (the many modern pollutions,

Those anemic adulterations), which (endlessly) seek to destroy his store of solutions.

During the day (without sextant) and Apollo’s sparrow, he`s directed in both sinew and marrow;

While at night Athena’s owl, provides insight, and allow him to prowl (though devoid of light).

Through understanding, his navigation, has grown;

And now this captain is commanding “The Stone”.

He apprehended the gist – the various elemental compositions;

All vision (which was contained), is no longer shrouded in mist.

He refined his sight (in solace) with precision by (laborious rigorous) revisions;

God made every verse more vehement and vigorous, and strengthened his wrist.

Still, there are those lonely times where;

He sits, among society, with an empty stare

(It may appear, to others, that he located there;

Yet, his mind is lost in heartbreak, beyond compare).

Not over some “love”, which most confuse for lust;

But because his minds’ mettle, life has caused to rust.

And when his spirits sink, all he can think

Is (through the constant mental trials): If only he could, he`d leave the flesh behind;

He would separate the immortal succulent fruit, from the mortal inedible rind.

He sits (All joy he forgets)

Searching for something more (among the ocean of the cosmos) – without relent

Yet

In reality, there is only the moment, and no discovery is more absolutely pure

Then he lets go of regrets

Also, he laughs, remembering that the future he (we) had hoped to find;

Has always been there – latent, misunderstood, and confined in his (our) mind.

- - - Finally, as the poet observes, each set of (apparent) passing eyes;

He sees the universes (behind the differences, the colors - which disguise).

He silently converses with strangers (despite any momentary or monetary disparity),

And in each individual (no matter who they might be) is TRULY a star in our galaxy.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Inconsequential

On the side of a quiet New York street,

This composition is rendered;

Among the throngs of shuffling feet,

This dream develops unhindered.

Fantasies grow without a sound -

Limitless, beyond any imposed bounds.

The stanzas and lines compound

As the heart, almost inaudibly, pounds.

The sky of encroaching obsidian,

Is arriving fashionably late.

Thankfully, darkness has yet to set in;

While the rhymes duplicate.

Expression, digressions, and explanations;

All seem too deep, and unnecessarily complex.

“Le art, pour le art”, or creation for creations

Sake; this does not complicate, frustrate, or vex.

Evening wind, softly caresses and blows

Through deep green, and thick bushes.

With no greater secret to impart or expose,

Or deeper meaning, for why it pushes -

Much like this hollow rhythmic prose.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Revealed Enigmas, Though Irises Negate Any Sight (RETINAS)

His eyes stare (entranced) into the aqueous lake of black,

Like a fisher of fallen, there is something with calling;

Which his pen brings back (to add to the track),

Leaving the joy – sullen, as the horror is crawling.

The incubus is sprawling, through the ink on the page.

Infernally imparted diction is expressed without restriction.

The temper is in a rampant rage, the stanzas develop on a stage.

From the slate river, enemies arise, thousands of eyes filled with hate;

Manifesting from his darkened haze, he`s hypnotized by their binding gaze.

The ocular occult images swirl, closing in around his carcass;

He is hoping and praying, these dark spectacles will pass.

He feels frozen in astounding awe and frigid fear,

The feeling restraining his mind is steadily compounding;

His courage is unable to thaw, as the visions draw near.

The hour is beyond late, and their surveillance does not abate,

More enemies continue to generate – not attacking - but wait…

“What do they want?” his logic begins reasoning and expounding.

Staring deep into the vision of each apparition,

Into each lidless lens filled with animosity and arbor

(This heap of the diabolical division of preterition);  

The initial dismay is trimmed, like hair to a barber.

The evil eyes in collision with the rhetorician,

As he analyzes, he notices another feeling they harbor…

Past all their the enmity, beyond all that is hollow;

He detects an enigma, hidden down deep below.

It feels as though, in the mystery, he now envisions;

He is being imparted, some positive potential previsions.

A developing divination in the eyes begins to show

(His mind becomes astute,

His bravery grows resolute.);

Their stares and glares, he shrewdly, will now follow.

“What is this emotion?” he works tirelessly to reason out.

“They are filled with some purpose, of this there is no doubt;

A stranger sort of hunger, not propelled by famine or drought”

…He notices and detects, that they have a sort lonely sorrow,

From drifting endlessly in the shadowy - in the lurid and obscure;

In stygian nebulous realm, grim and dim – in darkness ever-more.

“Perhaps, a moment of illumination they desire to borrow,

And they seek (if even for a blink), through this body to be free”?

Upon reaching this deduction, their demonic surveys, fill with glee.

He continues to dwell, in their presence for a slight spell;

Making many amends, for presuming they weren`t friends.

To him, many latent caches they unseal,

Many clandestine crafts they reveal.

Rising with a farewell (like smoke from a pyre), he opens his eyes to the night;

Back under the comforting gaze of the sire, and warmth of the moonlight.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Annihilation Of Segregation

The mind is curious, as to how it should start?

What written descriptions should it attempt to impart?

So, the poetry ends up being begun, by outlining

The initial thoughts (which the mind thought).

The hands and ink are soon visually defining,

What the creative conscious, previously wrought.

The various universal ideas grow and slowly pile,

Delivered with a residue of restricted personal style;

To create a broad mosaic – composed of lyrical tile.

The collage contains a hint, of the hues seen

In the multiple faces (each tint), passing by the eyes.

Yet, all these superficial complexions – are a disguise

(All that appears perceptible, is a dream).

Just an archaic, ancient, outdated system of control;

A way for humans to draw barriers, to isolate – and separate…

To take both apples and oranges – fruit,

And overlook that both start with a root.

… To take the color of skin, sexual preference – and segregate.

Differences in the flesh, similarity in the spirit and soul.

Stepping back from the paper and individual face,

To admire the entire spectrum of the human race;

Beauty, allure, and absolute perfection is crystallized –

In every potential variation, which is possibly visualized.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Necromancy

Through the gently blowing air, which lingers like the breath

Felt in those final moments before death,

These words laid their lives bare; and with the same transitory tension,

Magic - they pursue, with hopes of apprehension.

Their ink – their lifeblood is distributed lifelessly along the page,

To be contained for all eternity within this tomb – this papery cage.

The sheet (filled with symbols inactive) appears to be their grave…

… Yet, that image is a reactive illusion (to the immortal path they pave).

The seemingly mundane letters are activated

(Their runic magic is cast and fully generated);

When their encasing is viewed by two - your pair of eyes,

Inertia – proved as lies, as they shed their morbid disguise.

The incantation carries with it, a heavy cost:

As this spell is produced – the poet is reduced,

Until all physical apparitions, are forever - lost.

Until there is no more back, and no more white;

And all poets become, when our days are done –

Is the rhythm of each track, and the message we write.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Discontent

Keep the illusion of fame and appreciation -

All those fragile, perishable commodities -

Which are subject to decay and deprecation,

The words will take acclaim from the oddities.

Do these verses not fit the political correct cookie cutter?

Do they stick to the roof of your mouth like peanut butter?

Perfect! These words are done searching for any approval,

Please reject them – pending some critic`s poetic removal.

Like a lost dog, they searched for a heart and home;

In ridicule and despair they wandered all alone –

And the domesticated rhyme, searching for acknowledgment temporal;

Has become content in grime, happily savage and ferociously feral.

So, frankly “F*ck validation”, some half-hearted affirmation;

Of their lyrical ability. These poems are now self-sustained

By their empirical capacity – no longer held and restrained,

In the quest for consent (never again to be pent)…

These symbols are their own lone resistance,

Continuing their march, with an unyielding persistence –

Their only purpose, reason, cause, or intent

Is (in their angry, fed-up, focused descent):

To express to others opinions, their utterly aloof dissent.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Epitaph

She stood in silence of the empty graveyard...

She wanted to speak, but found it to hard…

Her heart was filled with ravenous regret and great guilt

From all the pain – and she would continuously run away.

In silence of the night tears fell as she hid alone and cried,

In the light of the day, she`d hide in the fortress she built.

A keep - made of fake smiles is where she would, daily, stay;

Until the blood she spilled and salted waters had dried.

The woman, which the rest of the world knew (the camouflage)

Was absolutely content, loyal, loving, and upbeat.

Nothing about this joyful girl appeared at all forlorn,

A testament to her expertly displayed disguise (her mirage).

They knew nothing of her disposition of defeat,

The low self-esteem, and the scars which were worn.

She`d display the deceptive image at her place of vocation;

Showing off the false smiles, in multiple pictures on Instagram.

So deft at deceit, she usually almost believed fiction was actuality.

Why should she not believe in her dishonest creation,

If everyone else believed in the visage (not seeing the scam)?

She fooled her closest companions and lied to her own family…

… To one, however, she was momentarily real and genuine.

Not because she wanted to, but due to all they had been through.

This person was shown her very best and also the faulty –

Had sampled all the sweetness and the bitter and salty.

Through both heaven and hell, their friendship steadily grew;

And like the titanic, they didn`t see the approaching ruin.

Despite the multiple repeated lies and careless disregard from her;

A second-second chance to show loyalty and honesty would occur.

The person stood by her bedside, when she was in the hospital;

And forgave all the untruth, every injury, ignored the suspicion,

Repaired the damage that she cause; believed she would reach her optimum –

Despite endless betrayals, that her commitment would be at its` maximum.

She swore that her love was endless, without any condition –

And this would be the most destructive lie which she would tell.

In their time spent together she`d reveal secrets, she claimed none knew;

Despite her character, the person took those things revealed, to be true.

The deepest desires of her dreams, the fervor and ferocity of her fears;

The person loved her honest smiles and consoled all her falling tears.

She lived in her disguise and tried not to think about the person she destroyed.

All responsibility for the death, she just blew off and would utterly avoid

Thinking about the life, her nefarious ways had carelessly severed apart;

She was an artist who created an odious, abhorrent work of modern art.

She tried to ignore looking or speaking to the grave,

Of the friend, that she didn`t even attempt to save.

She justified her decisions and actions, by relying on advice of transitory friends;

But despite all their instructed fancies and her own delusional illusions,

The reality, the validity, the filthy fact – she couldn`t wash away or cover or cleanse…

Which was: She killed the person with her repeated wicked contusions.

And though the person screamed every obscenity as they died at her hands;

No matter the words said - to this day, one phrase remains and forever stands.

No matter the wrongs, who threw the first stone, how she avoided it; she couldn`t undue

A truth the person expressed as they died… She tried to avoid their last words… “I Love You”.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker