The Book of Life

The follies of youth the waste of old age, both sides of a yellowed page. The book of life is open unheeded, pages dog-eared, but meaning impeded. Do we shut it now and go to the end, or is there time left to do it again? And if only hours remain will we have nerve to feel safe that our souls are served? Not everyone gets this chance, so make the most, of this last dance.

Bluejay

Veteran of old My Poetry Forum before its hiatus. Happy to be back.

More about me