Diary

Rough tiny gravel concealed with a thin layer of leather,
crashing waves roll over the sand's surface.
Drips of dried Popsicle from a hot summer's day discolours my page,
snuggled together by the fire on a cold winter's night.
With every flick of paper, the dancing spirits of the past impel me to remember,

When I turn the brittle pages from yesterday’s ages, a fresh begins.
The embedment of led--it’s ever changing though history ceases to exist.
Words breathe life into the crisp paper,
this paper bound to one.
You may be oblivious to it now, though when the century passes my voice will be revealed.

Book of life
I tell it everything.
Those I keep close, the diary keeps close,
if ever lost , I would be lost,
I am It. It is I.

My friend,
together we carry the past,
every day the present.
And the future?
…it’s inevitably history.