The ink of my thoughts scribed down,
a language once spoken, now distant and worn.
All in the past of life,
interwoven stories I could never read.

My words were written in black,
my point almost made,
but even as the letter closed,
the meaning arrived too late.

Maybe I chose this,
maybe this could be me...
But if this was my soul,
if my soul carved this path,
it left scars on the boy who held it.