Near Miss

the time for brooding melancholy has gone.
see! the furies come, hurling curses;
screaming and snarling, rage erupting.
how can such wrath hurl itself
from scattered books?
to hide is futile, to stand likewise;
destruction is inevitable.
and yet avoided – in the tinkling of a laugh;
and the flickering of a smile…
but that printer may never work again.

 

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