The yellow and frayed eternal pages
Are crying, just with ink, still of the same.
The years turn to words and seem like ages
Of grief in such a thin and subtle frame.
This memory-evoking prose of sorrow
Is life... or scattered pieces, left of it,
Of looking forward to the damned tomorrow
That happened to be nothing but deceit.
Then from behind the words a stranger, known
Appears, from each page he stares at me.
I miss those days of our midnight dawn,
The dawn of the life that's meant to be.
I'm reading, and it feels right like the first time,
My tears have washed what's left of ink away
Together with the sentimental old rhymes
Of prose - that I never dared to say.
...I cut my hand while listing reminiscence;
I'm brought to life by strong and sudden pain.
The paper's edge is sharp though torn to pieces,
And all that's left is just a heart-shaped stain.
