Credo

Wandering amongst the tomes of

The Museum of Four in the Morning,

Weaving my way into an altogether different story;

I am sleepless, restless, reckless.

The clock strikes the hour,

And the end of time comes and goes,

A starship that, having found the edge of the universe,

Does not dare to venture over its edge,

Does not try to peer into the further horizon,

Does not even attempt to gaze into the great abyss,

For fear of the vast emptiness watching you

Watching it.

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Published by

caitlincacciatore

A poet driven by the quill, a dreamer of impossible dreams, a lover of that which the world has deemed unlovable. We're all stories in the end. This is mine.

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