I am unwritten. My Story untold.
Yet I have pages that have been told.
Blank pages for years to come.
filled ones for thing already done.
I can’t rewrite history, my story is written in permant ink.
But I can take the pen and scate on the brink.
I found this nestled between the pages of my notes. My first assumption was it is a poem I left unfinished. However, after reading it, I think I will leave it just as I found it.
It stands as it is.
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