#UnopenedPages #Writecoapp
I sit here, clothed in silence,
spines cracked by time’s indifferent hands,
my pages yellowed, a testament to the sun that never reaches me.
Dust, like a shroud, settles thick upon my skin—
each particle a memory of the breath that no longer stirs my words.

I was born of thought, shaped by ink and yearning,
written to stir souls, to question, to ache,
but now I am still, forgotten,
a relic of someone else's wonder,
a dream half-formed and left to fade.

Does knowledge die in darkness?
Or does it wait, like me, for eyes that know...