The magic pen ran out of ink
just before midnight
Leaving all souls
to fend for themselves
Inside of dreams
they traveled having
to choose the way
through long doors
without a map
Some of the doors
were open wide with
all kinds of desire
Some of the door
were closed with dark locks
that had to be picked
in the darkness
Slowing with unsure steps
they made their way
past lines of fate
where the weak
dropped into past impressions
Until the remaining souls
entered the last door
right before dawn
Shining new light on the fountain of pens
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