Sitting numb on my modern desk
rests the future relic of the ages;
it has come into my possession,
and I am not worth its pages.
It glints in the faint cavern
like a painting tossed into the bay;
Its cover is morosely gorgeous,
yet there's nothing for it to say.
The handmade pages still empty;
braced to carry the weight of my heart.
But I fear the relic shall never be born,
for my fearful fingers know not where to start.
No comments:
Post a Comment