Soaked pages, damp from the rain, sit in a puddle.

They were torn from a book, and it wasn't subtle.

The scene had been violent, grotesque as the storm ripped the pages apart,

and that broke the writer's heart.

They watched from the window of their apartment,

waiting for the storm to be gentle as they looked down at the pavement.

However, the storm never quelled, continuing to ruin the writer's work.

Beneath the surface, the pages lurk.

They lurk with the hope that they will be returned to their former glory,

so that they may tell their story.

Not how the storm intended, but how their creator intended for it to be told.

That dream, however, may never come true, for society is bold.

Society rips apart every word written by the author,

its voice as violent as water.

Sometimes its soft, quiet like a mouse,

but that does not change the fact that they have torn down their house.