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242 Novels

The Play

It's a Mystery

Last Pages

Last pages are so hard
Our cast ashes
To where we never return
The urn of our weakened dreams
The crooked projection of our distorted self
A choice without a choice
With strength or the grains of it
Slipping away
And if we will not turn
The final page will
Writ or unwritten,
Where we sit
But still
It is the hardest thing
To come to this page
Put my hand to it
And let wave

But still
What drove me to this paper
Is more the purpose then the weight
That bows my head
Though I am taught to suffer
It is not the mission which I must seak
But just the child so hard to give up
Why is the last page
So much harder then the first
Why, because we dread the harvest
If this winter be the last
But it is not the fall,
It is the spring
And this last page is but a seed
I the farmer of an open field
My joy to know I have only
Opened my hand and there a life
Which with this last page I
Let it grow.