December Ink


The undusted cover of a book with no spine
held stories and flashbacks to a not-so-pretty time.
The front and the back, though covered with leather,
held rips and tears quite like no other.
The pages inside have faded away
now musty and old to tell of each day.
Brought up by the ocean and raised by the sea
waters collapsing, drowning a seed.
Buried so far down into the ground,
the coming of thunder along with the dawn.
Grown into sprig of rust painted bark
torn from the base, hurt from the start.
Plastered to string, now tied up with lace,
creating a masterpiece crafted with grace.
Etched in gold binding, so please to the sight
masks the reflection of misery fight.
Run from the panic and hide from the screams
escaped from the fear of hell's grasp on me.

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