Diary Poem by Rory Hudson

Too many pages in this book
that would be better blank
than they are when thus filled
with my foolish scribbling,
barely legible now,
the ink fast fading,
the pages curling and turning yellow.

Words that are now
losing their meaning -
for what they describe
has also now lost its meaning.
Words that desperately strive
to bring back alive
people of my past,
people dying fast,
people dying at last.

Pages strung together in hope
of a story that never came,
bound boldly in leather,
the leather of lame excuses for my life.

One page at a time
recording deniable facts
and intolerable acts,
and so
page by page goes by,
page by page goes by,
as I wonder why…..

One day there will be an end.
There will be a page not written,
a page left blank,
and perhaps in future times
some wistful archaeologist will see
the wisdom in that empty page
left behind by me.