Unwritten Poem
The ink flows down Into a dark puddle
Through the paper Soaking fast but subtle
The disoriented tip Lays there stuck
A bewildered deer Headlights of a truck
It's own world Unwillingly materialized
Full of emptiness Greyishly colourized
This old world it's no one but me
And in your reality l'll leave you be.
Copyright © Wingless Moth | Year Posted 2020
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