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The Written Word

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Can you believe that to be
is to not?
To laugh and to see
all forgot?
From the ink on my
fingers,
my life slowly withers.
As if of a flower besot.

It was once that
my mother was happy.
Twas once that my
father would smile.
But the story was
written,
by a fragile hand
bitten.
Making words and the like
to be vile.




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