The metal shard
The twisted spire of what could have been,
What was.
We all fly on paper dreams,
And drink from imaginary wells.
The ink that flows from our pens is nothing, if not invisible.
We grow accustomed to seeing what is not,
So we see it as it isn't.
![](https://img.wattpad.com/cover/75404-288-k13eb4e.jpg)