I write on it every day
It has been crinkled and torn
It’s the only thing I know
I can remake from ashes
Some notes in pencil are faded
Many, seemingly in ink and paint,
are more permanent
I imagine the words etched therein,
as vivid hues of echoes and memories
I continue to keep my journals there
every waking moment
filling up the remaining blank pages
in worn and patchwork volumes
The bindings have always been resilient
-
Author:
Michael Anthony (
Offline) - Published: January 6th, 2022 10:03
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 12
- User favorite of this poem: A Boy With Roses.
Offline)
Comments1
lovely write
Thank you!
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.