I write.
Well wrote my own story at hand.
I’m not finished with what I’ve hardly started,
Just placing the pen to rest in my pocket.

Fold up the floor, Tear down the tents,
Throw out my key, Stick out my thumb,
It’s time to put this show on the road.

I’m gone. Content.
Life in slideshow form shown through my dash.

I’m done. Unchanged.
With troubles nothing but rumble and dust.

Crack me open, Read what you may,
Wait for the break, A mid-sentence halt.
”Gone fishing, be back later.”

A toss of the pen, the key to this code,
A rise and a fall, no idea how to go.
Will it be caught, wrote down in new ink,
Or will it be waiting, for my absence to sink.