is there a place for ones story
when all you got is a paperback.
no front cover or front page.
just a paperback and few words
that seeps off ones own fingers.
is it nothing but reality
that our world is tearing
into smaller pieces,
and we sit on the edge
of our own space watching
another burn and turn to ash,
and another sway with the wind,
as if its a dance to celebrates the ashes
and disappearance of the shadows
from the pages.
our letters say nothing
but just remain on this
tiny withering page,
trying to remember whats burning
trying to protect the memory
from ever being lost.
and theres also us
perhaps not pieces of torn pages,
but names on either ends
of the crumbling book.
not sure whether we belong
in the chaos of it all.
I never knew your smile just read it
in between the letters of your name,
and you found the darkness within mine.
it has never been us and it will never be.
and in this frontless book
I will hold the ashes of the burnt ,
I will write hymns, poetry,
and more words
to keep the memory alive.
