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  • Today I wrote a poem, but only in my mind.
    I used a pen and some paper - it was bare and rolled like a scroll.
    Loosely it unraveled, the pen lightly touching its skin.
    The skin is my mind, as solid as a perfectly formed dream.
    The pen dripped its blue ink, scrambling words like an egg.
    How quickly it can form -
    How quickly it can disappear.
    The words in my mind, as fragile as a clouded dream.
    Saying nothing, my words don't touch the air.
    They don't breathe my air, or touch the page I hold.
    Because the scroll is still bare -
    As bare as the words that fall
    From my mind
    In a worrying absence of speech.
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