Please turn to Chapter Tomorrow; Page Thursday

A Page

Like clay under a tide

that's drawn it's breath,

I lie in drought.

Silence has begun to scream,

allying herself with time,

the following page has become an opiate,

dulling what's now.

Pages have turned,

and I flee the one I'm on.

My words last only now,

and yet abstinence keeps me silent.

Another page has turned.

blank.

Only awkward footprints reveal my presence,

each a memorial to the betrayal of youth

for the conclusion.

What I've left is not worthy,

I've lulled in an opiate a chapter away,

waiting for lustre and reverie.

I've held on for a fate,

written out in pages turned.

With timeless strength the tide has exhaled,

It's lustre graces my pages,

It's glow hold no answers,

only places were sentences used to be.

I seek the horizon,

and the answers that must lie there.

But it's pages past,

written in time,

that holds what I seek.

I think sometimes we tend to wait our lives away. It's a cliché sort of statement, but I feel nonetheless still poignant. How often do we perceive an answer to reside in some chapter in the future, when at times our shuffling footprints soil what's here and now.

©2010 Sean Tuckey