Draining half burnt pages in ink,
an old, broken pen he held
in his trembling fingers drenched in black,
sifting through scores of sheets,
overwriting letters repeatedly,
agitatedly forming those words
irrelevant in their meaning,
sentences intended to create a design then,
losing relevance with each passing stroke,
emotions transcended through
the nerves in his spine
to the tip of his left hand,
as the middle finger of his right
dripped profusely of red,
and finally he lay there in peace
for he had lived those memories
through the moments they were the best…
1 comment:
I like. Esp this bit: sentences intended to create a design then, losing relevance with each passing stroke.
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