In the morning,
will it be like yesterday?
How the hours,
drain love,
when all we want,
is the best for each other.
We grew selfish,
when we couldn’t find the words,
and became abrupt,
when we couldn’t read each other.
My stamina waned,
your resilience drained,
we held onto our past,
like a mother to her child.
Today, I’m done,
emotions weigh heavy,
so I sleep –
hopeful that in the morning,
it will be like yesterday.
Life is not a book
and though I try
words are
not synonymous
with experience.
Prose fails
to capture
true emotion
that ruptures
both heart and mind.
Line after line
I’m misplaced
where, what and
who am I?
the author unknown.
Chapters end
and still am I
naive,
ignorant,
hapless?
I turn the page.
Life is not a book.
We live today
for an unknown future,
while memories
flash clues,
remembering only
what matters.
Lewis Walddren 