I’m addicted to blank pages
For they hold such possibility
Such innocence
That could be twisted and rusted
Or enhanced
The future is unknown
The future is innocent
Like the life we each dream we could live
But we can’t
Because our pages end.
We have a front cover
And a back cover.
At the end of our lives, we will have a dedication page
A page of credits
Some even a long list of copyrights
Because they never truly found themselves
But were a motley of everyone around them
So they owe parts of their lives to them
None they could call their own.
We have a spine.
Such that describes our names and strengths that vary.
We hold secrets
We hold lies
We hold love
We hold mystery.
We hold action
And long lasting cries
We hold laughter
Bellowing booms that die
Because we have a back cover.
Two blank pages before
What do they resemble?
Our stories could have been more?
A sign that we did not live each day
Did not give reason to write more lines
Our authors had nothing left to say.
Are we our own authors?
Do we write our fate?
Or is it destiny; conscious of each date
We are born
We live
We create stories
We leave two blank pages
And are closed.
I’m addicted to blank pages
Free of ink
Where I am certain I am the author
I write until the story is complete
I write about the mystery
I do not leave it
Lurking in those two blank pages.