Wednesday, September 08, 2010


I’m an open book
my own life colours the pages
while I’m not so sure whose hands to allow
to hold my cover and read me ‘til I’m
a memory
I know my story—from start to cloudy
future come
though I can’t predict what precedes “The End”

are my Chapter One
the darkness took over Two and most of my pages
until I read between
the lines
and saw my saving graces in the I’s of those
who saw me for a work of art instead of

yet every time a quote of reassurance dances across
my present Chapter
my history seeps through
with the eulogy I wrote and continue to recite because
the ink threatens to bleed forever on the heart of my

I’m waiting for the light of tomorrow
to dry up the legacy I wrote for you
instead of the heritage you truly left
hidden in my driving force and inspiration
to keep writing these words

I may have caught a glimpse in His eyes
of the light my words crave to stem out of
my introduction and bloom into a glorious
end but
will His words drown out the pain I wrote
and let stain tomorrow’s paragraphs of
fairytale proportions
or fade into the ebony smudges of fear left
unspoken but written all over the margins
so nothing can be implied
save for the plea for an editor
to clean up yesterday’s errors with crimson words
of hope
and the chance to
begin again

1 comment:

Brig said...

I know I pretty much say this after I read any syllable written by you, but yet again this is one of my favourites! Your book is the reason that my book didn't end...and the reason all my pages from the last eleven years have light in them. You are so much more than a work of art to me twin refilled my pen to the brim with ink, just when it was running dry. So thank you best friend...I can't wait to keep reading your book right til infinity and one...oh what a one of kind masterpiece it is, and will be!