Living Isn't Half a Book

A Poem by Dawn

Filtered sunlight exists beyond another leaf.
Lingering in the musty smell of wormwood
thoughts, regrets, permeate parched veins.
Amid tenuous crackling the mantra persists.

While glassy gaze and fingertips move feverishly
oils pillage to dismantle fiber and ink.
Aimless memories fall apart unglued,
unbound by desperation's white-knuckled grip.

Chapter two is an inkling, a slip of the tongue,
a pasty hand reaching for the curtain's leading edge.
A give, a break, the playful breeze
slipping a tendril beneath the foliage to steal your breath.
.
An ending without a reader,
sunken eyes or wizened lines,
without a face--never lives.
Living is every page.