The quill is bound to some black string
The string is adorned with thorns so blunt
You could’ve sworn it used to crown roses;
Some black string was not a peculiar sight
As the quill sighed at the shadowed marionette
The silhouette that is the sight: seems ripe,
Though for the quill it is anything but fresh
For it knew the black string binding feeling:
Sensational, as it is vicious and for the hunt,
Brooding, to an almost “too” level in fact;
Much so, that the quill again sighed at the sight
On the actual sign of some black string,
For it is just as sensational as it felt then,
For it was just brooding on too much as it was then,
For it hurts, maybe less, than it was then,
And this “then” was three decades too recent;
Now, the bound quill was feeling its binds
Tightening in grasp, like a grappler’s or wrestler’s
As the quill sighed a final time, like it did then:
The three decades too recent became one reality,
Too new, too peculiar, yet vicariously similar,
While it is trapped by the same black string.
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