Each
Each word, a minute
A line; an hour
Each day one page...
Each day, ripped from our book
and held against tomorrows flame
Turned, torn and gone...
With our hands we recall;
Ours is a memory of
Soot smudges and papercuts
2 comments:
This is an excellent poem, it says a lot of things I think.
Hehe, thanks dude :)
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