Pages

Pages

Crisp to the touch, thin to the bone

the dark, deep, black stain that bleeds

through the wilting leaves that crumple to the touch

and turn to ash, a slow burn in a bright room,

born again on a blank white canvas. 

A thin ribbon to keep his place,

a defining line that lays the path.

Reflecting on the past, offering predictions of the future,

but forever focused on the present.

An intrinsically woven thread of each and every moment.

A snapshot of a blinking eye.

Words

Words on a page

Nothing more, nothing less

Pages

Mere pages