How do you re-address your love,
when the binding is thread bare and the pages left there
are yellow and faded and you feel justly jaded?
Is there even a way to write your story anew?
Does your age really show?
Does the pain still come through,
Tattered and frayed and yellowed with age?
Can there come a dawning,
an end to the rage and compelling silence of defeat?
Can we start again, fresh, or does the cycle repeat?
Burn the book. I swear not to look...
Such is the novel approach to growth;
the wisdom to rearrange.
It's just hidden to most
and to those too afraid to let go.
Burn the book. It no longer holds inherent value.
Spinkle the ash in the garden by May moonlight.
Let it fertilize such fertile eyes as yours
to see love re-addressed
and streched to the sky in budding radiance,
blooming into the words of another chapter.