Early next morning I will sit down, and watch my room turn the colour of sour milk in the empty wake of the moon being replaced by the sun,
It will be the kind of dawn that makes you feel free, one that pushes through the thick, dark trees and rolls over huge grey paving slabs, washing them clean.
Early next morning, when the stars are still out behind the sheen of grey and white sunrise,
I will sit down in my room and my fingers will kiss the pages of a book.
I feel no greater power when there are words spilling from my lips, than if I launched a thousand ships.

When the slicing of paper, yellow and worn, pierces my finger I could be a queen or an emperor, or a general leading my army through the stagnant dust,
Lighting deaths shadow, as blood seeps down the cracks in the dried up river, my men will quake, and gasp, and shiver.

I flick and mark and underline these words, as the sun makes his steady rise into the now blueing-gold sky,
I will tell the sun to stay hidden because words do not look so good in full light, they have barely any mystery left to them, and instead of letters that climb the sour white page like a vine climbing an old stone wall, they are in full view and under the sun, aren’t so tall.

I will never forget that words and I are equal, for without them we’d all be mute.
We forget these things, don’t we? I write the lines, I speak them with sadness, happiness or fear. I speak the words, yet they define me.
Words cannot describe some things but they can try and see the milky sunrise over my dark room, and climb the pages of a book like vines, they can kiss the mouths of any man, and be written as the most graceful line.

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