Between the Pages of Time
Between the Pages of Time
Between the pages of time the ink is a smoldering fire held low,
A story of ashes rising lazily toward the heavens in a slow and weightless flow,
In a world where words are winds that carry memories on their breath,
Where memories are butterflies hidden between covers holding life and death.
Every thought a spark ignited in the darkness of the silence deep,
And I a traveler through libraries of dreams and desires in my sleep,
I walk along pathways made of paper listening to the whispers of those who were,
For burning is not only a flame but a silence that devours what was once her.
And the world is full of people running with lit matches in their hands,
Seeking to transform poetry into the smoke of a collective forgetting across the lands,
But in the middle of this dance of shadows and of light and in between,
There is a fragile resistance a love for the spoken word still keen.
And I with every verse embrace the warmth that lingers in the air,
For in the depth of my soul the stories never die beyond repair,
They only wait to be rediscovered and set ablaze again by eyes,
That know how to see beyond the flames and beyond the ash that lies.
In a universe where books breathe and dream and turn their pages slow,
Where every letter is a star illuminating the path we need to know,
The ink keeps smoldering between the pages of all the time that passed,
And the stories wait in silence... patient... and eternal... and unsurpassed.
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