In the box
beneath my bed
lies
a forbidden story,
with unfinished ends,
etched out in Chelpark
on
blank white pages.
No secrets.
Only incomplete mutterings.
Scrumptious possibilities
hovering over the
pool of blue-black ink.
The fluted-nib of
moonlight's quill
standing still.
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Since every thought is a seed, I am looking forward to a delicious harvest.