Published Mon May 13, 2019 | Posted in Poetry | By Linda Jenkinson |
You ask for the book and then page through
Reading only the parts of interest to you.
You never get the whole story, yet
You still forgot, still forget the beginning,
Long before you reach the end
It's too late in the day to begin again.
So the open book
Cracked and discolored.
Meaning never discovered.
A conversation piece you never talk to,
'Til one day you notice it waiting for you.
The pages crumble to dust in your hand.
You won't ever find this book again.
And you see the cost
Of what you have lost.
The book, once forsaken
Irreversibly taken away.
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