There was this book I held
such a long time ago called me.
I would glance at it perodically
but I never understood the meaning.
Words were too long,
and those pictures
all of them a blur.
Until one day I sat it down,
its been lost for decades.
Now that I have found it
hiding on the shelf sittting
by itself all alone and dusty.
I opened it up only to find
the pages are blank and
nothings inside, Im still confused.
So I'll take some scissors
and cut the pages into little people
then I'll proceed to play with them.
On each one I'll place a poem
That signifies its life.
and on the back I'll write
the date on which it will die.
For I'll take them one by one
into the fireplace, where its safe.
leaving behind no trace of its existance.
A pile of ashes that I call me.
There in contains my everything.
If the wind were to pick up a bit,
Id be blown about the countryside.
So please shut the door
as quickly as possible now
I dont want to blow very far.
Drafts of air my awakening,
carry me further to the oceans creast.
Where the water line means the sand
so I sit during high tide
and filter the rain.
With a watchful eye on my everything.