I am not an empty paper,
nor am I a clean slate. I am all of that which happened, all of that now broken and torn. And hollow as this heart might be, it is mine and the pain belongs to me. All of this is for that fleeting, bitter moment when your eyes locked on mine. And all that is, and all that will be, wither away at your feet. Time, time is not my hero. Time, time is a silent thief that walks the rooftops at night. I am but flickering thought, a brief passing of light. I am the sound of doves leaving, or the gleam of the butterfly's breath. All of this, and more.
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Jempan
Både prosa och lyrik Arkiv
Oktober 2017
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