Finally I dusted that lazy pile of too many yesterdays,
Somewhere between forgotten birthday cards, lists, and old bills,
I found the treasure of a tan brown memory, lost to decay;
It was a gift many winters ago,
Meant to begin an adventure,
Those were the days of metamorphosis - feelings became stories,
And they dripped from the tip of my pen;
I flipped the pages -
The diary was empty.
The corner of my eye fell upon my weapon,
My hand shook a bit - there was something a little different about today;
I held its edge upon the first page,
Somewhere inside, rusted corners groaned;
And then the silence burst,
Attempted ****** imploring, the ring of my phone,
Not this time - defeated, it faded,
Till it grew tired and shut up;
I felt my cheeks stretch into the greedy smile of those days,
When routine was a slave,
And unchained, my imagination reigned.
Much had passed - the equation had reversed,
And I had died a little, every flip of gone calendars,
But today, again I was alive,
And for metamorphosis, I held someone inside;
Her brown eyes eluded playfully,
Behind the child was a deep soul's abode,
The poise of royalty, in voice the simple girl she was;
I lifted my nib from the page,
And in that timeless stillness, something formed.
Till the doorbell rang;
Startled, I realized it was the middle of the week,
But the chains had fallen;
How far I had traveled in a morning,
The world of rude reminders was no longer mine,
Nor the world of cliches, overstated phrases, and bad poetry;
I had a fine needle in my hand, and I wove upon the sheet,
This was not a romance, or dark or sad,
It shied from big statements - it was delicate embroidery.
The phone rang, and the doorbell rang - distant noise,
And in the empty spaces between phrases,
My mind wandered back to her eyes;
There was a wall,
And much as I had tried,
I had never found a door to the other side;
I wondered what she would make of scribbled pages,
Would she unravel riddles, and strip my soul naked?
Of course I wouldn't know -
I am alone in this room and walls don't speak.
Incessant, impotent ringing - the dull day is now left behind.
--
'Suicide', the man in the uniform reported,
'Any note?'
'No inspector, on the table I found an old brown diary,
The first page just says -
"I hope you fill this with adventure :-)" '
'And the rest?'
'The rest is empty - looks like an old gift';
'A woman's handwriting, I see',
'Yes sir',
'Okay then,' barked the inspector,
'Case closed.'
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 8:10 AM UTC
Finally I dusted that lazy pile of too many yesterdays,
Somewhere between forgotten birthday cards, lists, and old bills,
I found the treasure of a tan brown memory, lost to decay;
It was a gift many winters ago,
Meant to begin an adventure,
Those were the days of metamorphosis - feelings became stories,
And they dripped from the tip of my pen;
I flipped the pages -
The diary was empty.
The corner of my eye fell upon my weapon,
My hand shook a bit - there was something a little different about today;
I held its edge upon the first page,
Somewhere inside, rusted corners groaned;
And then the silence burst,
Attempted ****** imploring, the ring of my phone,
Not this time - defeated, it faded,
Till it grew tired and shut up;
I felt my cheeks stretch into the greedy smile of those days,
When routine was a slave,
And unchained, my imagination reigned.
Much had passed - the equation had reversed,
And I had died a little, every flip of gone calendars,
But today, again I was alive,
And for metamorphosis, I held someone inside;
Her brown eyes eluded playfully,
Behind the child was a deep soul's abode,
The poise of royalty, in voice the simple girl she was;
I lifted my nib from the page,
And in that timeless stillness, something formed.
Till the doorbell rang;
Startled, I realized it was the middle of the week,
But the chains had fallen;
How far I had traveled in a morning,
The world of rude reminders was no longer mine,
Nor the world of cliches, overstated phrases, and bad poetry;
I had a fine needle in my hand, and I wove upon the sheet,
This was not a romance, or dark or sad,
It shied from big statements - it was delicate embroidery.
The phone rang, and the doorbell rang - distant noise,
And in the empty spaces between phrases,
My mind wandered back to her eyes;
There was a wall,
And much as I had tried,
I had never found a door to the other side;
I wondered what she would make of scribbled pages,
Would she unravel riddles, and strip my soul naked?
Of course I wouldn't know -
I am alone in this room and walls don't speak.
Incessant, impotent ringing - the dull day is now left behind.
--
'Suicide', the man in the uniform reported,
'Any note?'
'No inspector, on the table I found an old brown diary,
The first page just says -
"I hope you fill this with adventure :-)" '
'And the rest?'
'The rest is empty - looks like an old gift';
'A woman's handwriting, I see',
'Yes sir',
'Okay then,' barked the inspector,
'Case closed.'