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
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Author:
Michael Anthony (
Offline) - Published: January 6th, 2022 10:03
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 12
- Users favorite of this poem: A Boy With Roses
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Comments1
lovely write
Thank you!
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