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He took
The book.

And as he began to write
He began to cry…
Tears ran
From left eye
To right.
He looked from left to right
He was alone
Was gone;
He was left to write.

So as he paddled on the boat
Of poetry
He wrote…
Every speech and every quote
Of what they said and thought
Of battles fought
And lost,
Of broken hearts
That fell apart
And shared one heavy cross.

He wrote of what he saw with his eyes
Before they chose to cry,
He wrote.. Out of fear
That those eyes might one day close… to die
He scribbled
And dribbled
Around words he never really knew
He wrote… Oh he wrote
That was all he could ever do.

He wrote…
Until his hands
Were sore
And could dance
No more;
He wrote…
Until night
became dawn
And light
Became a shadow of the sun.

He wrote of the songs
That voices couldn’t sing
He wrote of nothingness
Yet he wrote of everything;
He painted and prayed,
Waited and stayed,
And marvelled
At the colours he’d made.

Then he went on his knees
And worshipped those words;
Pieces by pieces
They pierced him like swords…

With a thud he fell
And like heaven and hell
His heart
Fell apart;

With his eyes closed
And the book open wide…
He died.

the open book

Author: admin

I am a member of the WRR editorial team.

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