Poetic Letters and Prime Suspects

My voice is mute upon your ears

From a silent distance I watch your tears

There is no sound, only written words

Of a longing you have, or so I’ve heard

You give no description but some clue

Of this muse that often tortures you

Between your lines I’ve followed leads

Interviewing your scars and lustful needs

Being led only to certain things I’ve said

By chance am I the villain in your head

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