The Book
Swathes of empty pages,
Turning one by one,
Through the passage of time,
Cycles of sun,
Some paper has words,
Jumbled, dull, unstructured,
Lacking meaning or inspiration,
Who made this book?
It isn't finished,
It should be pulped,
Pulp it, perhaps write again,
Can the author flow mind through pen?
Does the author have a mind?
Who would read this book?
Nobody.
In the vast library, this is a coaster,
Stains on its cover, cuffed spine,
Thrown away and forgotten,
Rightfully.
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