Above beating hearts race, tender whispers sound, flesh on flesh; touch to touch. Destitute rings below a hollow gong that has no sound. A silent scream etched in wood. And somewhere between young lovers that lyric do long to meet. A still plucked from breathing breathe; fortitude’s death. To-be lovers locked in chains of self. And still above beating hearts race and tender whispers sound. Fate sealed in one’s own truth. Better this than a no-loves that.