Unformatted text preview: An abortion. Wrinkled was page seventeen, Wilted away from poignant drops of Salty tears following a grandfather’s passing. Discarded, banished to a used cardboard box, Locked away in the ominous corners Of a dusty attic. And there it would remain; Once the instrument of unequivocal love and devotion, Now a frayed collection of paper and ink. Still, despite its now meaningless, forgotten presence Its essence sits before me, a replica atop a shelf, And somehow I feel its story is not yet complete. And neither is mine....
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- Spring '08