Infinite

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Infinite as the

stars stretched out

into space.

We are endless,

our voices

screaming out

across the vastness

of the planet.

Melodies pour

from our calloused

fingers,

they peck out

manuscripts made

from our flesh,

our bones,

our blood and heart

and pieces of

our broken souls.

We are infinite

as long as we

have words

to splatter onto

the empty page,

as long as our fingers

tingle at the thought

of fashioning a tale

or penning poetic

longing.

We are infinite,

as immortal as our

words make us.

If I no longer have

paper,

I will write on the walls,

on my skin,

on the dirty earth.

If ink runs from my pens,

I will write in my

own blood.

As long as I write,

I am infinite.

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4 thoughts on “Infinite

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