worn ideas on paper spread out on the floor
but the floor resembles the ideas of old
sun-dried ink fades from teh lines
as stories awaken but refuse to be told
the words from teh paper have a strong grip,
clenching on to the tongue as my lips fold

my teeth bite down in spit of the stubborn words not letting go
as the hands of the clock chase each other like a dog pursuing its tail

outlasting the silence is a daunting task
 


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