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Poetry. Thoughts Words.

The beauty of your pages.

Peeling through chapters and tearing out pages.

Only to tape them back together and scope out answers.

Tugging at words, sewing them together, editing.

Filing the edges, polishing the cover.

Alone? The exception? Individual?

We are all of the same paper.

Bound together in chapters of varying lengths.

Different fonts, languages, styles.

Paragraphs we would rather not read.

And ones we act out every moment of every day.

To convince our readers that the book is worthwhile.

Stained, blemished, disregarded.

Laying dishevelled in a second hand shop.

Now only read by the ones who could recite a chapter with closed eyes.

Seeing past the grammatical errors,

Beyond the aesthetics, through the hyperbole.

And so a book never dies.

Its’ stories may fade into the background of busied minds and disappear.

But the feeling that book gave to its readers can never be destroyed.

For it lives on.

In the tingling of a chest.

In the dreams of a child’s imagination.

In the changes people are inspired to make.

In the pages of other books.

Where light spreads and flows and never ceases to be.

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Uncategorized

Hope

She is trapped in a box. There are chains tied around her ankles. Weighing down the chains she bares is a heavy stone, heavier than she.

The box is filled with water, engulfing her body, soon submerging her head beneath it. She splutters and chokes fighting for air. She pulls the chains as she panics and screams helplessly.

She keeps going until she is truly exhausted and out of air. In her final exasperated breaths she realises that she can lift her head above the water. And that there is a key perched beside her.

 Outside of the box there is space. There is peace. There is hope. It’s familiar. She recognises it. Has she been here before? Has she heard of this place? It feels like home.

It is bright and warm. It welcomes her like a treasured friend, like the scent of a loved one, like the sound of the ocean, like the stillness in a tree.

Sometimes when the floor gets slippery she falls back in the box. And again she cannot breathe. The water penetrates her lungs and she chokes for air.

But not for long. For she knows there is a key beside her and that she has the strength to lift her head above the surface. And that this place is always there, waiting for her return.