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Tinkering with emptiness

on the notepad of my mind

I doodle some musings

scribble some ramblings

fumbling with random words

on a blank tablet called mind.

I was once a poet.

That is, I thought that I could think.

Now, unable to do that ordinary chore of my emotions,

I realise to my utter dismay ~

The memories that were finally pushed away

Are the ones that wrote the verse every single day.

I was merely the pen & paper

Supplied by the muse, The ink flowed directly my way..

what an irony that to be fulfilled or resigned to fate

Has, from U, the most beautiful gift snatched away.

 

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