An empty staircase, bereft of the usual crowd, begs for a sprint.
Sound sleep, bereft of wild dreams, howls for awakening.
Empty glass, bereft of hemlock, beseeches for a refill.
Raging poet, bereft of love, yearns for some.
Lovely woman, bereft of the poet, throbs in pain.
Yet you ask, why do we scream so?
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