No matter the variables or constant values
The slope of the function will ever be inverse.
The cacaphony of the crunching of numbers
Drill through my poor head, indeed to burst.
The cosine wave of dear anxiety coincides
With the tangent wave of lovely distress;
I close my fist to resist the harmonic cycle
But yet again make another musical mess.
Can my essence be predicted by a logarithm
Can it calculate a set of reasons? Please:
Decipher the exponential decay of this heart
And the restless purl of these seasons
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