Where is the story?
Where are the words?
Hidden behind a tree?
Hidden away from me?
Where is the poetry?
Where are the songs?
Sleeping on the porch swing?
Sleeping in the wings?
Do I need to find the story?
Do I need to find the words?
Not today or tonight
I can just turn out the light.
“The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words
being there, written in invisible ink and clamouring to become visible.”
~ Vladimir Nabokov
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