It seems I’ve used up all my words... these so called tools of mine
To allow you exploration deep inside my heart,
within my mind
These pages lie in solitude, in darkened boxes...
left behind
Possibly to be discovered, senescent....
and there unsigned
Someday perhaps, some years from now my words are found... austere
Their meanings undefined, and so sadly...
feelings disappear
Can words on paper hold, what even now seems clouded...
so unclear?
The thoughts of one as me, who only sought...
to leave some comfort here

These pages now have seen another dark December…
come and gone
And so another year has passed, to leave my words...
therein withdrawn
Condemned to sad obscurity, endless evening...
endless dawn
To lie there unobserved, another tired...
ragged vagabond

They fill these dusty passe drawers,
my pages disregarded...lost
All of what I’ve written, so much time and effort...
God the cost
The nights spent lost in cold regret, for the frozen lines...
that I have crossed
I watch as now, upon my heart there lies a cutting...
bitter frost
The emptiness of thoughts unread, to fade...
throughout the ages
Ravaged by the hands of time, yellowed...
torn and tattered edges
Please believe me when I say, It’s cost me sorrows
cruel wages
These unseen words of mine, that lie dead and silent on…
The Pages.

Dean Evans
1-08-15