The book is gone.
Lost or left behind…
Somewhere, in someone’s hold.
Running fingers across verses
that once trembled my soul.
Will they read them as I wrote or will they read them as told(?)
There was one poem written without ink
Whoever finds that will never know
That it holds what I couldn’t hold within.
So, if you see my words wandering here and there
on torn leaves or rehearsed lines,
know this...
They once belonged to a man
who loved so hard, he forgot to lock the door.
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