Page after page I turn;
The fulcrum worn, and
brittle. I'm waiting for
it to disintegrate,
fall away.
Absent of their spine,
the pages flutter, sway,
leap, land, rise, and fall.
To some they'll see freedom,
but to whom those pages
were once contained
memories, recorded action,
hopes, aspirations, dreams,
as well as sickening
realizations.
Seen will be
unbridled tragedy.
He could compile them
together again, sure, but
The loss of just one paper
destroys the integrity,
the fluidity of his release.
So dance you lined darlings.
Fill the sky,
litter the ground,
but when Destiny again comes
To reclaim you, I pray the ink
is the last thing to leave you.