A common man's life, more notable than mine-
with no title to distinguish it otherwise,
I’m an empty page, with so much to say
But no money to employ the scribe
Yet you who sees and feels all things-
each square of ground on which I step
Surely knows the words I’d choose
Or even better yet-
The ones I at this hurried pace
Most likely would forget
The wonderful author,
The celebrated pen,
The forgotten creator
Of all that we spend
on books we don’t read
And stories that end-
Apart from the one within us.
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i read this before, and though it then- but only now am i letting you know.
ReplyDeletei like this.
it's beautiful,
and so are you dearheart.