It may be complicated in a sense of words.
Vintage from a lifetime in vocabulary growth.
Yet, I assure you, that those words mean more than a soul.
That writer found a purpose as each day left a layer.
Thin like needles forming sketches over his skin.
He is old and frail, but his words are vibrant with life.
Do you not understand this vital need to live?
Do you see that it is the ink splattered pages that wake him?
Each sunset is a new era of dreams twisting to reality.
As this writer shifts his focus into an all new perspective.
Not wrinkles, but wisdom.
Not sadness, but memory.
This writer is not one man, but many.
He has pulled his burdens down, torn them apart, and let it fall away.
Let it fall from between his fingers, seeping into a glass vial of liquid thought.
Where he will start a new day by spilling the vial onto blankness.
Having seep through each layer of skin and page.
To remember who he was, is, and who he wanted to be.
To remember the many, he became and those he imagined.
To creating a once upon a time….
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