The Manuscript

Pieces of paper

    it's tangled,

compressed and compiled,

written with the Whiteness of Hope,

        and the Blackness of Grief.

Closed as secrets;

      never been told to anyone

but seeks to foresee

the Melancholy 

                of Life.

Pages are lifted

     to tell stories...

hidden behind.

Words written on prose,

         A poetry of Silence it is.

Yet closed to critique 

         itself,

From prefix to Index,.

       For Poets they are,

to scream their agony,

           using those words 

written and kept compiled.

      Telling stories...