Young writer

Singular type-face.

Hidden within impassioned shelves.

Where is the fire, the vigor, the colour?

Where is the passion of the young mind?

Stuffed into ten lined print on a stark white page.

Sitting asleep with boredom.

It passes through us without impact.

Unable to breath & dance & feel –

Within a plain blue cover, the incarcerated images

lay locked behind yellowing pages

and me along with them.

 

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