Whimsical Writer

Each heart holds a book of memories,
Whose pages are filled haphazardly
By a whimsical writer
Whose name is Time.

In the ink of pain, often he dips his quill
Scribbles trivialities with the scrawl of innocence;
Paints pretty pictures in colors of laughter
Blotting some with unshed tears.

Time himself gradually erases the image
A few, effortlessly, others, with perseverance,
But some lines refuse to surrender.

From prying eyes this book is safe;
It cannot be understood or misunderstood
By those who have naught to do with it.

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