Letter without the auther
The Unsigned Script?
A letter without the Author, our life—
a parchment penned in shadow,
no table of contents to guide the hand.
We move as if the morrow is a page already read,
but the Author holds the final draft,
the only one who knows the twist of fate.
I count the scars that birthed a better self,
each stumble a chrysalis of becoming.
Blessings bloom unseen, beside the cruelties;
the same sun that warms, can scorch the earth.
Wrath, a dry fire, wouldn't allow the salt of tears,
only the fierce, quick drum of victory,
a champion's blind triumph over the cost.
Fear was the thief of now, stealing light for a moment,
while Time, a harsh gardener, forced the bud before its season,
planting seeds of iron will and venom.
There is no pause button on this chaotic film.
We fight for the known terrain,
and keep the spoils of every battle won.
Growing is the tide; tomorrow, a phantom shore.
The Author gave no map, no compass, no decree.
We are the echoes of those who walked before,
living by the whisper of instinct, not divine instruction.
If only this life were a dog-eared novel—
to flip ahead, to study the dark foreshadowing,
and correct the tragic ending.
But the book remains bound, unread.
Life is a letter left unsigned
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