Everyone's life is like a chronicle,
Pages and pages deep.
Our deaths are like the finale,
Which cause our loved ones to weep.
We don't know how many pages,
Exist within our lives.
It could be around a thousand,
Or as short as simply five.
It could be in the middle of a plot,
Beginning to unravel with delight.
Just before we reach the climax,
The sentences stop and vanish from sight.
To kill oneself by one's own hand,
Is to stop writing in the middle of a page.
A story that simply ends abruptly,
With a shocking resolve of rage.
Lucy was playing in the street,
A speeding car whose driver didn't see.
Having fun with her pet dog,
And thus ends the story of young Lucy.
Stories end every day,
But likewise new ones begin.
I hope that you have many more pages to write,
And that the ink is plentiful in your pen.
2 comments:
nice. i agree that for many life's short. so, let's eat dessert first!
Love the analogy of life to a book.
I guess we should all learn to read slowly and absorb each page, because, as you said - no one knows when the book might be "snatched away! Love this poem.
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