It's so pale, so thin
The edges torn, the back streaked with soot
As it wafts through the air
Can you read what it says?
As it's carried on the wind
Where will it go?
The thin, pale sliver with edges torn
The ashes of memories painted on the back
Dreams of a future that will never exist
Hopes for tomorrow
That came too late
In the silence of snow
Can you taste the bitterness of betrayal on your tongue?
Under haze of mountain mist
Can you scent the distant anger that sits rotting in the air?
This story, this single page
Of the book that wishes never to be written in again
Never to be carved
Never molded
Never put under glass
Let it fall free among the ancient trees
Who welcome it to make its final resting
And as it lays upon the moist earth
The ink runs and seeps through the thin barricade
So frail, not enough
The story is gone
Only a torn piece of paper
Its life having already seen too much
Dead