Our lives are written
fretfully and delightfully
in a strange shaped book,
coloured,
black and white,
shaded and grey.
And the people in
our lives write in
our book,
sometimes on the
same page as us,
sometimes on a
page all of their own.
The book withers
and yellows,
is tattered and worn,
but only on
some pages;
others are clean
and fresh
and unused.
The day comes
when it is too late
to paste and imagine
anything on those
virgin pages,
for there is nothing
left to say,
no new stories to write.
The pages in our
book cannot be
torn out,
though we may want
them gone;
they stay,
though the volume crumbles
and the ink fades.
27/3/2010