O how much I am like my tattered notebook
The edges of my journal have seen better days
The wire down its spine is bending
The teal blue around the cover is starting to fade
My body seems to be following suit
My vertebrae don’t sit the way they used to
My exterior deteriorates with every year
The colourful hope that surrounds my soul has worn down as I age
Our pages inside are not as white or unstained as they once were
And we are both running out of room to write
Though through the weather
My notebook and I still hold stories and poetry not written anywhere else
SWD 12/2018
Beautiful!
LikeLiked by 1 person