Dried Ink

Haven’t wrote anything for while. 
Haven’t walked along the aisle. 
Blank pages and thoughts adrift.
Pen in hand, I'll find the rhythm 
and pour out my heart's unrest. 

Lost in the words, my poetic soul wanders
Longing for this silence to be broken 
Weaving each verse with ink.

In the twilight of thoughts and verses
Each metaphor is a path, a journey
Where imagination becomes the reality 
And reality a lie to fade way. 

Haven’t wrote anything for a while,
Ink spills as thoughts compile, 
Walking down that writer's aisle.
Lost yet found, my poetic soul dances 
 through the labyrinth of words. 
Forever seeking, forever free. 

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