Sunday, 15 January 2017

So this is me writing something after a really long time and being all smug about it. And it's about, um, me writing something after a really long time and being all smug about it. Ink-ception? Yes, that.

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Ninety-Three
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One winter evening,

I wrote again.

Maybe it was the grayscale sky,

Or the dusk that fell too soon.

Out of pitch, out of song, I wrote.

Struck out every second word,
And wrote again.

I slept well that night,

Yet had the strangest dream:

My little notebook was on the floor,

And all the words were gone.

Breath and death and earth and fish,

Wars and cars and stars and quiche.

Freedom was out fluttering in the wind,

Fear lay shivering under the bed.

There was but one word that stuck -

Loyalty.

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