Sifting through the scattered stack on my shelf,
I stumble on the wreckage of a sink,
Faded lines rise from my forgotten book,
Washing up words submerged by waves of ink.
The mouldy covers like jilted lovers,
Feel distant to the hands, for which they pine,
Crumbly pages now with tattered edges,
Not yet resigned to their yellow decline.
For it was not so very long ago,
Stuck in a room just like this that I took
An escape and unloaded my phrases
Into the waiting whiteness of this book.
Mending ties as I hold it in my hands,
Verses fly as I pore back to those times,
Into my mind as it must have looked then
To see my jumbled thoughts rain down as rhymes.
Forgotten now the search I had been on
When I chanced to find this lost part of me,
For I feel the angst of these unfilled rows
Spur us both into another journey.
