I remember the words you wrote
jumping at me,
embracing me.
With each page I flipped,
your voice became steadier.
Quivering less,
emboldened more .
‘We are sent as blank pages,’
you had written
in a smoky room
three hundred years ago.
You baited my attention
piqued my curiosity
drove me to the edge of reason.
Your words
are manacles around my hands
when rage visits.
We are sent as blank pages
I refuse to fill mine
with hate.

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