We are all stories walking around,
bound collections of pages and chapters.
Some thick and others rather thin,
our spines cracked from being open.
Each morning, we rise from bed,
adding sentences to our personal narratives.
Some pages filled with coffee rings,
others smudged from unexpected rain.
My neighbor waves across the fence,
his plot twisting differently than mine.
We exchange paragraphs in passing talk,
never reading each other completely through.
I wonder about the unreliable narrator
living somewhere behind my own eyes.
What revisions have I quietly made
to memories better left unedited?
Our endings remain unwritten still,
each day another line being added,
until someone closes our covers gently,
placing us back upon the shelf.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: March 4th, 2025 10:37
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
Offline)
Comments1
A great analogy of each person a book. The metaphor works well in this poem that is well worded and with great images. Nicely done
Thanks Soren I appreciate your feedback and Happy Mardi Gras. Half of all the parades were canceled today because of high winds I've lived here all my life and I've never seen Mardi Gras canceled
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