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The gate was left open
the pasture of creativity
unbounded – unrestricted
set free.
And it left.

Wandering and aimless
lost in forests, rivers, and on
sun-drenched mountains
barren of snow –
naked and exposed.

No words followed;
thoughts abandoned with
no page to rest –
dreams unfolded like sheets
blowing in an invisible wind.

The writer looks
to the horizon
and see nothing.
Hears no voices –
and yet
Doesn’t shed any tears.

He is
too empty
inside.

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