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...the end
Folder:
Soul Poetry Rip the pages fom my soul,
each,
crumpled and tossed
aside,
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
manuscript
A musty bookmark
falls to the floor,
and my place is forgotten.
It is...
...the end.
