The Book

Sometimes I wonder if I can find myself
in this tattered graveyard of despair-
this bone yard of the past where inside
lies the remains of bittersweet destruction.
A memory remains of a life once lived
inside my mind while the story unfolds
from my mind to the page opened on
this table slowly burning from the floor.
Can the characters survive when the book
no longer remains, swallowed by the flames
curling the cover and blackening the pages?
You are nothing more but a word on this page
for me to crumple and cast into the fireplace.


I can not remember which life is real and which
is the story that I have created in my mind
each time I cast my eyes aside from the lies
I lose my mind a thousand times again.
The stories unfold as one in the same to
keep me sane while I slowly seek to end
the noise sounding, resounding, in my head.
In this chamber lies the cure and the curse
of knowing that the story can come to an end.
Dare I seek to open the chamber and seek
what's inside waiting to show me to the
conclusion of a book that I burn in my mind?