It was never a pleasure back then,
to find a flood of scribbles
on every journal page.
Left by little hands,
in our busy home.
They fade though, those dewdrops.
Each day revealed quieter ink,
the result of fast-moving feet and
lives.
And by now, the pages have grown silent
and the inks run dry.
And empty are the days spent
tracing scribbles in my mind.
Oct 6, 2025
Oct 6, 2025 at 11:37 AM UTC
It was never a pleasure back then,
to find a flood of scribbles
on every journal page.
Left by little hands,
in our busy home.
They fade though, those dewdrops.
Each day revealed quieter ink,
the result of fast-moving feet and
lives.
And by now, the pages have grown silent
and the inks run dry.
And empty are the days spent
tracing scribbles in my mind.