I had thought
I had written something
Something worth reading as a snippet of verse
In another place
When I went to look for it
It was gone
Or perhaps I looked in the wrong place
The idea that the words can move
Independently
Away from where I saw them
Or thought I did
Intrigues
What would we make
Of a string of ink
Tracings of mindblood
Making their way through the world
Alone?
Would we even notice?
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