The Stroke
An idea was imprisoned in such a bind
It bounced about within the precincts of the mind
What did it mean I heard you say
I didn’t know about it right away
For it was not alone in there
And had to survive a longish stare
But what was missing in its story
Was the truth in all its glory
What will be written for the ages
In history as you turn the pages
Will it be corrected with a stroke of the pen
Or will the stroke win in end.
© Paul Warren Poetry
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