Scribe IV: The Fourth
It’s something at all, nothing at most. If time would
submit to my will, I’d go back, and backspace each
one of my typed words, for you would be no letters,
and left of me would be my future, intact. But we
miscalculated the forces of you. And left to pay,
the price of unrequited, your beauty came at too
high a sacrifice. The ink, like the oil, the natural
resource of my soul is running out and sooner than
expected I’ll go dry. The machine of my love for
you will cease to function and this will go nowhere
at all.
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