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A storyteller’s tale, once told in a book
Now sits on the shelf, in a lone dusty nook

He scribbled the words, on paper with pen
Let it dry for a moment, but suddenly, when

He returned to the paper, to finish his prose
The story was missing, and nobody knows

How something so precious, disappeared out of sight
So he put down his pen, and turned in for the night

He quietly closed, his creaking bedroom door
With smile on his face, he knew, evermore

For his words never left him, they’re there on his shelf
Bound by the story, he keeps to himself

 

 

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