Memories of ancient tome,
rush past the window,
the road home journeyed alone
dies tomorrow.
An exile forlorn,
may still fly from sorrow,
in all reverie hope is born
hidden away by shadow.
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Writing, poetry and more writing.
Memories of ancient tome,
rush past the window,
the road home journeyed alone
dies tomorrow.
An exile forlorn,
may still fly from sorrow,
in all reverie hope is born
hidden away by shadow.
