(Read Part 4 HERE)
He looked at the clock; it read 11:55 PM, 13-02-2011.
“Valentine’s Day!” He said.
The poet sat back down on his bed and read the skies painted on his bedroom ceiling.
“This is where I write my best, on Valentine’s Day. The pen I hold shouldn’t rest, but my hands are getting fatigued, I should let them instead.”
His mistress didn’t make an appearance. The poet thought hard. He thought, what if he wrote words peculiar enough for them to come alive?
A little voice stargazing inside his head said, “You’re only a poet, how can you make words come alive? You’re not anything special.”
The poet looked at the Moon as it seemed like it was frowning at him. The Moon floated away, as it was turning away from the poet. He fell to the floor knowing how powerless he could be.
Were the words he wrote stronger than the sword this time? Or was the sword just too sharp and torn his words apart?
He is still waiting.
The poet still dreams this endless dream, a state of sedation, a dream of consequence.
The poet is still on his way to her … somewhere … he never really knew that she would become his misery.
He never knew what he lost …
The … poet … was … exiled … forever …
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