Flipping back through pages of my life
To reminisce over the events from which I’m forged
I fill with bittersweet melancholy.
For a familiar, yet distant place.
Cradled in recollecting hands
A compendium of still flowing tear-laced memories,
distant sounds of laughter
the warmth of gentle smiles.
In such lightness I wonder
What’s become of my days
And
the fleeting moments
which moved the hands of time.
What purpose have I fulfilled
Through the
lives have I touched?
Other times my strength withers
Under the dense weight of my anthology.
I toil with the content of lessons,
though at times daunting and unbearable.
The pages of our lives can turn like lead
And we struggle through the stories told
Rather than the scripts of pages to come.
The once molten lava of catastrophe and coincidence
Have solidified into obsidian
with sharp serrated edges and conchoidal fractures.
Page by page, we climb over them,
under them,
through them…
Page by page they tear at our flesh,
But the story remains the same
With the ballast of the past tied to our feet,
We swim to shore
Sinking more deeply the closer we get
Before drowning below of the surface
Of that last page of darkness.
Let it burn, let all those pages
Burn and be blown on as
Wind swept ashes of the past.
