The future,
written, or not;
in black ink
or in gold,
it hardly matters.
With eyes,
even weary ones,
we keep on reading,
ever in search
of the next adventure
with each page we turn.
Until, at the end,
the unexpected appears…
The realization…
always in our hands,
the present,
the only time
worth living, and,
whenever possible,
reliving.
Nov 4, 2025
Nov 4, 2025 at 7:32 PM UTC
The future,
written, or not;
in black ink
or in gold,
it hardly matters.
With eyes,
even weary ones,
we keep on reading,
ever in search
of the next adventure
with each page we turn.
Until, at the end,
the unexpected appears…
The realization…
always in our hands,
the present,
the only time
worth living, and,
whenever possible,
reliving.
Request permission to use this poem