Looking back at the tear-stained pages
Or the fantastical flurry
Or even the self-beating words of a young mind,
I find something sweet and fitting
In the art of permanence.
Words spoken, simply they fall.
Yet, those that find the drawn lines
Are kept at bay.
Words, that are not merely words;
Feelings, not merely a wind but an ocean.
While life may find its bitter end
Or a love so transient find solace in a grave,
There remains those youthful tales
Of an internally caving mind
Etched into our very historia.
The sweet permanence of fitting art
So long as they are penned, they will claim time itself.
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