The blank page

On a slow Sunday, I read a book,

It was a story of a king who did no good,

Drawing the picture in my mind,

I fell asleep, going back in time.

 

When the king, brutal yet wise,

Showed no mercy, only vice,

The picture playing, in my mind,

Was a killing, none other but mine.

 

He killed me for a reason I don’t know,

Tears trickle down my cheeks as I saw,

With shaky limbs I woke up,

To darkness around, no light showed up.

 

I went back to the book, hoping to find clues,

Why did I see a dream so not good?

Flipping through the book, I found,

Blank pages, it built a void.

 

Wondering if I should read from the start,

Not feel defeated or a broken heart,

With a glass of water, gulped down my throat,

I decided to start on a new note.

 

I was killed by the evil king, maybe for a crime,

Or maybe by his will, I let him pry,

I had to change the story, in my way,

The blank pages, were there to stay.

 

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