An open book lies on the table,
An unwritten page towards me.
The cover is beaten and battered
And the pages are stained red
With the blood of good intention.
My thoughts are all scattered;
I wish to continue but am unable.
The characters, more real than I,
Speak in a language built of regret—
Whispering slyly from the pages,
They share the secrets that rule me
I name them but they are in control;
No sympathy in their juvenile age,
They tell me the story of how I die.
DannYetman
www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com
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