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The Marker Runs Dry.

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As it flows, leaving ink projected on paper.
Sweeping strides of black like a masked caper.
Imprinted so deep, bleeding through, blind with the dark.
As a winding road leaving no where to turn or even to park.
But with the swift motions, the cuts fade to light,
The bandit becomes recognized with the script so bright.

And as it starts to die, the marker runs dry.
Puzzle pieces crashing together, unable to lie.
There's no denying the picture, practically magnetically in place,
This figure craves it's clearity, rushing in the quick race.
Although with no lines in store, at a distance, we see no part.
The felt crumples, yet thirsty for more, therefore no depart.

And as it starts to die, the marker runs dry.
Keeping a steady hand, focusing only on the try.
Eyes pierced as the pupils are glued to the page.
Wrist pressing constant, creating pain, increasing rage.
Finger tips in form, as if soldiers anticipating the time to take charge,
We all know the fate is haulting, but my words will remain at large.





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