...the end

Soul Poetry

Rip the pages fom my soul,


crumpled and  tossed


as tho not even worth perusing.

My binding is weak,

all things bound in me,

have come undone

in parchment pieces.

Scattered to the four winds,

they drift in endless volumes

of silence.

Inked tears run

in rivulets down my spine.

I am watermarked

and worn

from careless hands.

Placed away from the classics,

I am but a re-write

of a story too often told,

in chapter and verse,

of an unfinished


A musty bookmark

falls to the floor,

and my place is forgotten.

It is...

...the end.

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