I've thought it best to warn you
Time and again
It's not a spirit shaken
It's a spirit's end.
Not all the way faded
But erased more or less
Piled scraped stacks of papers
And bad ideas laid to rest
The ancient remains
Of words without color
Draping a shapeless future
Like sheets underwater.
There he waits for the owner
Of a capable hand
To revive what's been lost
And correct what's been planned.
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