The Same Page

Even when you want to be the same thing, sometimes you just can't see eye to eye.

 

Mine is made from true bark and
drawn from an ink pen with a feather
plucked from an eagle held proud
and strong.

Yours is from ball point pen and cold,
perfect, machine lined paper carefully
manufactured for the masses
to behold.

Mine carries proudly its ancestral smile
laced with mistaken words and
misunderstood moments spread across
its pages.

Yours carries all the guilt of childhood and
flashes of freedom and looser times
which glow in its jeweled clad
gypsy ways.

Both covers carry scars and nicks with
thready edges on loosely bound leather.
So, why is it that we can never be
on the same page even when things
seem so perfect and delightful for
the other?