His hands grip firmly on the torn pages of his work
Teary eyed, he grits his teeth
staring at the floor
The window is open, nothing but a
rose in a small vase sits on the sill
It’s raining; the fresh smell of water fills the cold air
His breathe visible
His pain known
His anguish shown
Angrily he tosses the pages out the open
The white doves carrying his works flutter and dive in
jagged patterns
Rain drops add weight to word’s wings as they fall
His words drown in the fall
Muffled, silenced by the white noise of the rain.
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