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A Poet’s Ode.
It is easier between a pen and paper than almost any other.
There, so quietly,
Invisibly to all the rest,
A secret can be shared.
Away in some silent corner, however small,
On the edge of chaos,
No one need see what is whispered there.
The paper pressed, inked, engraved under its pen’s intent.
Its scars are its promises to hold what has been halved with it.
Till death should they part.

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