The On-Going Novel

Each day is an empty page
waiting to be befouled by ink,

getting more renowned with age
with more memories to think.

Yet some pages that I’ve scribed
I’d rather tear and discard;
chapters when dullness was ascribed

when the flow of ink was hard.

I look back at some chapters
with a fond recollection

of summers harmonic raptures

and a friendship’s affection.

Some lines are forgettable

telling of times tedious;

their lack of depth’s regrettable

that life’s took so serious.

The contents page perplexing
a non linear life led,

without structure, it’s vexing,
how long it’ll be ‘til I’m dead.

Who is the author behind

the spine, hiding within words

showing the weakness of my mind;
I’d rather sing them with the birds.

Will I die a proud writer

or get lost in time’s soft sigh?

I had made my mind lighter
so do I need a reader's eye?

The book is fast becoming full
but I need more pages to pen
so I now yearn for days dull
for life to be slow again.