The Old Diary
The Old Diary
I turn each page
black on white scribbles
of yesterdays long gone.
Eyes strain, ache,
hold back tears that threaten
as words half remembered
sear my brain.
Stained, brown-edged, each
page a sword that pierces,
draws forth old resentments,
frustrations buried deep,
worms that gnawed held
ever close through
wasted years.
A story told,
once dear, buried beneath
words spoken in haste, never
revealed the love, and hate
held close to snake through
body and soul until
eternity
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