Blank Pages

Tears dry on blank pages My final thoughts to you Empty, except for the immortilization of my sorrow pressed into the textured pages "Fitting," I think. Representative of all the promises left unfulfilled Or perhaps it demonstrates the vastness of knowledge unknown, of words left unsaid, of dreams yet to be dreamt The old me yearned to fill these pages with ink We would become the cosmos' greatest authors, carefully tracing our story in each experience we created, or writing it in the topography of each other's faces as gentle hands brush over a wet cheek The old me would see the stained blank pages of this neglected note as a monument to the loss of something beautiful Veterans weep at the tributes erected in honor of their ascended brothern. I weep at the sight of these pages emptiness, for all is not fair in love and war Autumn arrives before I can conjure the will to write these notes And I am reminded that Autumn is much more than the harbinger of cold winter nights, evenings by the fireside, and the cold sting of your absence It is an invigorating reminder of life's cycle: Growth, change, death, and rebirth The tree is unlike any other being. They experience this cycle dozens of times over, yet their roots remain as strong as the day they were conceived I put my hands to the worn bark, feel the rough texture against my palms, and ponder how many people had confided beneath it's branching leaves before me It is the season of change And the colors begin to shift The old me would detest my inability to put my thoughts on paper The new me prefers it this way These tear soaked pages are no longer a constant reminder of shortcomings and errors It is an opportunity To scribble over each wet dot Each and every reminder of nights spent in cold surrender They will be covered with new stories, new loves, new tragedies Although, regret lurks below the shallow surface of the pens marks I look back to this solitary tree And ask myself what secrets it hides behind it's sheltering bark What have these beautiful disasters done to distort the rings lurking behind it's surface On this consecrated, ground I spin whimsical tales of what this gentle giant may have gone through All the while, knowing that this mystery may never be unraveled And that is okay

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Related entries

The Book is Being Written

How we observe and how we reflect.

The Dreary Faceless

The observations and reflections of a traveller in a foreign land.

The Model House

The facades of a perfect home.

The Woman Who

This peom is about a woman in my life, who is suppose to be there for me but is not.


Dreams, desires, id and ego.