A Game Of Two Halves
Whilst rebinding an anthology of myself,
Happened to fall out a photo torn in two,
Of me and another, the other torn away:
Half anchored in time, half a void;
Me safely tucked away through all these years,
Sole remaining half of a snapshot pair,
Which dust has put to sleep and darkness guards,
As tombs their sleepers never cross with care.
What secrets dark years traded,
As news, lay blind to me
As though I were a dusty book,
Lying forgotten on a shelf,
The image of my happiness divided from itself,
The other half has long since disappeared
On paper and in life:
I know not now
From which hand that bird now feeds.
My eyes cannot see, but my heart feels and my mind pleads
That this may be the nadir of my Fate
Whose unseen directors of its orbit
Will lift me once again to its zenith.
Books are anthologies of ourselves:
Words in sentences, sentences in paragraphs,
Paragraphs in chapters and chapters in life,
Each connecting with another and then closed,
Warmly tucked away and cooling from the thought
Until rekindled by a chance spark,
Forever writing over itself with time,
As waves on the shore
In a single infinite volume called Oblivion
Which no mortal can edit once written.
You're at the bottom!