Tearing up in the most peculiar of ways,
I’m merely another chapter, unfolding with each
new page for every dawn—my narrative, born from
an unexpected prologue, leaves me pondering the
conclusion.

It should be an inclusive story,
but it's often so exclusive to the author’s constant habits
of being a reclusive – my eyes could narrate ten thousand
muses; yet the art of writing these days, has become so
elusive.

I was once a pen, transformed into the very letters
that compose each sentence, and crafting a narrative.
And with every sunrise, I pen another page in this
Book of I.