I scribble my life as words on a page
each day another story by a wandering sage.
And the book, it grows, day after day
full of hope and fear, love and decay,
as diverse as the moments
from childhood to gray,
every one of them captured,
my life,
a page.

But if my life is a book
what happens when one day it burns?
When the words crumble into the ashes
of pages that will never turn
again? A whole life spent in pursuit,
not a line left to learn,
now just residue of flames
as amber after-images stir.

Was everything a waste,
a drip after a drop
in the bucket of history, outpaced
by the relentless
burn of the flames,
consuming our lives,
changing purpose into pain,
into lifelines
erased
by the trudging on and onward of moments in time
skipping ahead, falling behind
by a line
by a line
by a line.

Maybe, true,
life is not a book
but a song, singing and sung,
a song that beats on
long after the words are gone,
and yes, the words are gone,
yet here we are
still singing,
singing,
singing
and sung.

About This Poem

Lately I have been thinking a lot about death, about mortality, about what it means to be alive and to be remembered. As a writer, I have a deep desire for my words to outlast my flesh and bones, to challenge minds and inspire hearts long after I am gone; I strive to create art that endures.

But words will fade. Pages will burn. And what will be left of my art then? What will be left of my life?

Our lives are more than words on a page, no matter how beautiful those words may be; they are a chorus, sung by a choir, echoing into eternity.