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141 of 365

Placed in the loft
in wooden boxes

Wrapped in filth and regret
were her writings.

She felt compelled to
hide them.

Callous and reckless
that she was.

Shame filled her as
she dusted the box.

Years of hard work
boxed up.

Who would dust
the cobwebs in her mind?

For years ago she had
left her pen and paper behind.

He fell out of the hammock
the crash mute.
Yet, the wail that followed,
piercing. Inimitable.

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