Pentameter screams,

In the land where I used to,

at the mountains when I had time to,

of the question why I loved you too.

At the peak of my how's,

I saw the answer of none.

Meanwhile;

The days counted the night.

As night turn to grey dawn,

what misty time has shown.

Of prose and verse to be hewn in steel and stone,

the wouds of my coulds are cemented and embedded;

not here of thought and memory,

not even here at the banks of storaged moments.

Where were then those I try not to,

like the air appearing and the noise of mine,

ignoring.