Every passing river
Turned out to be
The flowing waters of stardust
I thirsted to drink
To quench and wetten
The parched throat,
Just like a paper
Begs to be seduced by the ink,
Slowly with the touch of a pen,
In a room full of lines
Waiting to be stained and dusted
With words
To wail out laughs and scream laughters
Finally draining into a muse,
But I was not meant to be
Thirsty
For the flowing water turned still
With my touch and remained there
On the parched paper,
Rippling occasionally with rains of profound wisdom
And winds of insanity
That often blew me away
But my muses remained unaffected.
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