Like a dusty old notebook i sit idle,
Forgotten through the courses of time,
Ignored during its prime.
My pages lay blank,
Like the beats of my heart,
Waiting for a pen to fill my pages full of hope.
My Bindings are made of loss and despair,
My cover is made from pieces of my soul,
From time to time i am picked up,
But never opened.
Time seems to pass more quickly now,
My bindings will soon rot away,
Soon i will be dust!
A story untold!
Copyright © albert noel