A year ago, I opened a book,
I found a bookmark, a small bookmark.
Curiosity possessed me, and I took a look,
At the words from a heavy heart.
They said:
“I hold onto a rope.
I do not know where it leads.
But it gives me a sense of security.
Do I let go? And stand on my own?
No, for I fear of losing all hope.
So I stay and I follow.”
These words, from a poet unknown.
I read it once, then again,
Minutes had passed since time never lasts.
I wondered how long this poem had been waiting for me.
I prayed that the poet had found a new source of security.
Even now, I dwell on these words,
What had to happen for them to occur?
Why was it I who was left to find,
This snapshot of a person's mind?
These words that they left behind,
Paint a portrait of fear that binds.
The similarities are uncanny,
To myself, the takeaways are many.
I wish they found their hope,
Goodwill toward a poet unknown.
Nov 28, 2025
Nov 28, 2025 at 11:27 PM UTC
A year ago, I opened a book,
I found a bookmark, a small bookmark.
Curiosity possessed me, and I took a look,
At the words from a heavy heart.
They said:
“I hold onto a rope.
I do not know where it leads.
But it gives me a sense of security.
Do I let go? And stand on my own?
No, for I fear of losing all hope.
So I stay and I follow.”
These words, from a poet unknown.
I read it once, then again,
Minutes had passed since time never lasts.
I wondered how long this poem had been waiting for me.
I prayed that the poet had found a new source of security.
Even now, I dwell on these words,
What had to happen for them to occur?
Why was it I who was left to find,
This snapshot of a person's mind?
These words that they left behind,
Paint a portrait of fear that binds.
The similarities are uncanny,
To myself, the takeaways are many.
I wish they found their hope,
Goodwill toward a poet unknown.
