Stories. Poem by Sandra jacks
Stories.
It's written in the books,
with no rhyme or reason,
on the blank pages,
in the places,
hidden by the passing seasons.
Empty words on empty pages,
and for what,
I ask,
for what.
to be read,
and die,
and live,
with no life,
to prove your mind,
isn't on,
quite right.
or just to run.
or just to hide,
a while,
in your mind.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Topic(s) of this poem: books,rhyme,seasons
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8/21/2026 4:15:08 PM # rel_20260813T193622Z_3aad590
