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The story of my dear love’s plight, With quill in hand I start to write. Quick dip into the ink filled well, To begin the night’s magic spell.
Each word is quick to cross the page, Like graceful dancers on a stage. But with each pbum my breath is lost, As if lungs filled with painful frost.
With chest chill and lips of light blue, My hazey eyes take in the view. The silky ink now crimson red, It seems the quill my blood it bled.
And with a prick against my heart, A flow from my mouth that did start. Trickling from my blue-hued lips, Black ink to drip upon my scripts.
For when writing with one’s own soul, Time catches up to take it’s toll. Log in to see images! |
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Posted On: 03/09/2009 12:09PM | View SlashyMcStabby's Profile | # |