Whatever written here on these pages
vanished with last night's moon.
Like ink blots they remain misshapen
interpreted by eager fools.
We had scribbled down some emotions
that intertwined and looped and looped,
We painted a story of hopes and dreams
more colorful than each rainbow strand,
But etched in charcoal, shaded and smeared
was where we hid our silent fears.
How long were we running off the world
that caught us while we floated out?
And if time waned would it still be worthwhile
to turn the pages of an empty book?
Friday, October 12, 2007
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