The world is a set of icy fingers
Wrapped around a fragmented page
On which are written broken words
In a language I can’t understand
Telling a story with no ending
At least, not one that is written yet.
I am trying to write an ending
But I don’t know what words to use
And the ink is drying on the quill
With only a little while left
For me to learn the language
Much less to tell a good story.
But just when I lose all hope
I think, maybe, I understand
Just a few little words, like
“grace”, “laughter”, “patience”
And maybe that’s enough
To carry on just for now.
Not an ending but a beginning
A story still being told.
And maybe I’m not the only one
Who gets to tell it.
Maybe I’ll leave the next part
For you and for you and for You.
1 comment:
Your writing style isn't really what I expected when you told me that you write a lot. Interesting. :)
You seem to gravitate toward a kind of metaphysical poeticism, even in your prose. I get the general feeling more than I consciously make sense of it.
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