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I want to write something real,
Something worth more than
Dark doorways and empty rooms,
Broken light bulbs that will never glow again.
I’m stuck in the gear rooms,
The wheelhouse and all the springs and screws
Are rusted shut, but it’s like I thought 
I could keep them turning. We’re both running
Out of time and memory and the words
Are only echoes now. 

I know time weathers all things but 
I thought that my parchment 
Would never turn yellow, curl up at the edges,
That the ink would never dry. I’m trying too hard 
To bring the words back, make them sound good
Against each other and flow like rivers
Or maybe magic, until they reach an end. 
Then maybe I can rest, assured
Because I’ll have written something
That has a meaning 
And isn’t only soulless noise. 
 

  • Like 2

constantly confused

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