The inkwell's dry, the quill lies stiff and cold, The ink-stained fingers ache with memories past. A story finished, bravely to be told, But not to linger, not to hold me fast. The pages rustle, whisper their goodbyes, A solemn farewell to what used to be. And from the ashes, with new light in my eyes, A different narrative begins for me.
poem
The inkwell's dry, the quill lies…
1 min read
The inkwell's dry, the quill lies stiff and cold, — The ink-stained fingers ache with memories past.
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