Water traces pre-paved tracks,
like ancient lunar channels,
and the watch hand ticks its way around
the given course-
eyes open inevitably with the orange glow
of the dawn,
and close readily under the pale dominance of the
blue moon-
there are many pages to this book-
many incarnations contained within the
carefully placed sentences and phrases-
many interpretations are interwoven between
chosen paragraphs and words-
many lives laced into a adhesive web-
concealed in the depth of a dense mist-
how many times can you think of the one thought that
will destroy all thoughts-
and why-
how many years can you sit and listen to the ocean
from inside of the shell-
spending your hours listening to the echo
of a distant voice-
as distant as the rolling sea-
calling out to you with flailing arms-
and pleading,
as you watch with glassy eyes and
transparent expressions-
there are many pages to this book-
they are placed in chronological order,
but are most often pondered randomly-
do you read the last page first?
endings are what beginning are made from-
for all the pages spent frivolously-
spent like pennies into a fountain-
spent like dollars in December-
spent first and then considered later-
pages spent-
blued under that watercolor moon-
speckled wet in the bright darkness of night-
frayed at the edges-
thumbed over many times-
foxed and creased with use-
many pages-
scribed by experience-
penned using an ink pigmented
with the tears of yesterday, the dreams of today,
and the hopes of what tomorrow will be-
it’s up to the reader to keep reading-
the writer to keep writing-
and the heart to keep beating*


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