Poem of a Diary Forlorn for Eons in an Attic
Why tell me riches of secrets,
Decanting your life on pages,
And cry on paper with concretes,
To lash on your ire in rages.
What about my hope and my fear?
What about me free, as I feel?
You, you, you is all your dealings,
Me, me, me in need of healings.
In seeking sight devoid of lure,
To feel the wind, to hear the sea,
And discover a world most pure,
By your writing to share your glee.
Reflect on the day, think, replay,
Remind all things faced for today,
The joy felt in truth to recount,
And say I'm your true paramount.
I'll be waiting with white pages,
Your return e'en for few ages,
To share with me what you have seen,
And know all what I could have been.
Why tell me riches of secrets,
Decanting your life on pages,
And cry on paper with concretes,
To lash on your ire in rages.
What about my hope and my fear?
What about me free, as I feel?
You, you, you is all your dealings,
Me, me, me in need of healings.
In seeking sight devoid of lure,
To feel the wind, to hear the sea,
And discover a world most pure,
By your writing to share your glee.
Reflect on the day, think, replay,
Remind all things faced for today,
The joy felt in truth to recount,
And say I'm your true paramount.
I'll be waiting with white pages,
Your return e'en for few ages,
To share with me what you have seen,
And know all what I could have been.
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