Dead script he wrote, waiting for the echo
mimicking the sound of a closing door
to tell him where the beginning went
hanging on by a thread.
Until the tides of time began to fray
wearing the weight of the ghost
preserving the hour in a jar of salt
until the fever broke, waiting for the echo.
No trumpets sounded, no heavens tore
just the clicking of the latch on the door
as ink bled out before words spoken
a quiet theft of breath. a stolen key.
Rated for Everyone
Dead Script He Wrote
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Summary:
Haunting
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enjoyed this ink have a great day!
Thank you, Bat.