He took one last look and wrapped it on up
Things had seemingly taken him too far
People were catching wind, rather simply detaching his once masterful plan
For a lifetime
He’d need to press rewind and go again
A pen, a pencil, whichever
He would need to create an entirely separate endeavour, one far more fruitful, even so much as bountiful
But he just felt that the creativity was no longer there
Not in this instance
He’d to hold up his hands, realise that there really was no such disguising empty skies when it came his particular time to put his art to bed

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