My thumb inside the binding,
Fanning the hundreds of book pages…
I have no need to read these words,
It is my own life through the ages.
The speed of flashing chapters,
Split-second memories and dreams…
Is no time-line exaggeration,
Life passed that fast, it seems.
We tally battles won and lost,
Weighing regrets past and before us…
Realizing life is not a song,
It happens once, no chorus.
Is this a picture of your scrapbook of pictures? The poems are in another book?
ReplyDeleteI visualize you making books of your records.
AA