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by Cheve
Rated: · Poetry · Other · #1765044
If the hour glass could speak.
The ink in my pen
is like the blood in my veins.
I collect them both.
An obsessive practice,
yet completely necessary to my existence.
Without these fluids I am mute.
Like a wingless moth,
unable to reach the light.
© Copyright 2011 Cheve (cheve at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1765044-Collect