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Resting in the pages of a book found on the shelf

In the silence of a library

Where the dust speaks for itself,

Drift away with a pencil in my hand

On misbegotten adventures

Away in far off distant lands,

Escaping from such perils

That would turn ones hair quite white

The only sound that’s made is from the words that one does write,

That tells the tale, that spins the yarn, that creates such things untrue

Of places, people, faces and voices  reaching out to you,

The dreams that spill as nightmares ride both day and night unbidden

Let such stories fill the world, let nothing be forbidden.

 

 

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