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