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