© 2019 All rights reserved. Iceberg Tales.

February 23, 2020

Unused swords rust

like your feather quill,

dipped in dry ink,

that scars the paper;

leaving marks that do not last,

merely dent the page,

when words were meant

to cut through.

You ask for the world,

but you don’t have to.

Your words belong on the altar –

you kneel, exhausted,

in...

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