Open the book.
Read to me our story.
'Upon ones chest, subtly breaks.
Don't strip the bandage from me so easily.
Refrain from planting seeds of past content.
Snow upon a white covered mountain,
it means nothing.
Each morning, solace delivers not a word.
Awaits comfort from any willing source.
It does not come.'
The pages float, one side to the next.
A love story of incomplete nature.
Abundant lines bring tragedy yet I yearn
to picture a smile.
The tired cloth folds between a chapter.
Tomorrow, we will see.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.