This probably does not make any sense.

A book lay on the bed,
my book,
the blue book;

The wind lifts the cover away,
forces it open,
reveals the contents;

A crown sits atop the book,
the blue book,
on a big bed;

The crown takes the shape of a cage,
with thorns of diamonds,
covering the glass and metal;

The breeze moves the crown away,
blue book wide open,
the parchment untouched;

The crown sits on the bed,
my blue book now white,
bleeding edge of the throne;

Breeze brings red,
the vision all blurred,
nothing but a painful silhouette.



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