Still unwritten not quite, filled in
every word has pinned itself to story
like a sewing machine stitch
down a runway path to somewhere;
Turning points and zig zag threading
let the seams tell of the glory
Pages of my life sealed inside a book
like bookends at a fairground
holding steady until the rider mounts;
Still unwritten not yet ready to wear,
this garmented padded book of tales
isn't finished yet, ...
Until a dried rose gets pressed
against the pages of my life,
my eulogy stands told
in this book, of life.