Thompson Emate Poet Free verse

Incomplete

A book sat on a table in a barely occupied, quiet room. 
It was covered in dust, 
so I decided to clean it. 
The title on the cover was not very clear. 
As I opened it, 
I found myself intrigued by what I saw; 
it sparked my eagerness to read.

I began my reading at dawn, 
turning page after page. 
My anxiety grew as I dug deeper into the story. 
Sometimes I sighed, sometimes 
I shook my head, and at other times,
 I fought back tears.
 It was a journey along different paths. 
As night fell, 
I turned on the light in the room to continue.

At dawn the following day, 
I was reading the last few pages. 
The journey had taken me from a pebbled road to a muddy one,
 gradually shifting to a straight and smooth path. 
Darkness began to give way to light,
 turbulence turned to tranquillity, and
 mystery transformed into clarity. 
I couldn’t hold back my tears;
 they streamed down my face. 
But then the book ended. 
Someone seemed to know me, 
as if someone was writing my story but could not finish it.

I took a pen and paper to write my own ending and attach it to the pages. 
Then, I woke up.


September 23, 2026.

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