record of sortsdays stretching lazily in time;
shoved onto my diary
capsuled and buried
in the page;
tombstoned for reference.
ive left permanent reflections
on each date.
there, but i cant feel them, ever again.
heres a flutter of happiness,
theres a wreath of letters.
and sometimes the wounded
words bleed ink.
but sorrow does wait
for the dawn of the eastern leaf.
n while i dust the diary
into my cupboard, i know,
when i open it ever,
yesterdays graves are
todays living lessons