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Unused Swords Rust

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 the empty room; wrinkled

pages on the scratched

wooden table...

Pressure weighs you down

like the sky upon the titan.

You ask the silence inside

what you were meant to do…

… but the silence answered

long ago, between the lines

that you wrote down.

Aldas is a writer from Dublin, Ireland. He holds and MA in Creative Writing and dreams of a career as a full-time writer. His work has been published in Cabinet of Heed, Terrene, Idle Ink and elsewhere.

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