She reached on the bookcase late one day,
to find the book she had written
Yanking it down, the pages fell out,
edges dusty and ripped and bitten
by children, and bugs, they riddled the pages
creating a wonderful mess,
“What happened here?” she asked herself,
hinting at gloom and deep sadness
Cursing, she opened the fireplace door,
tearing each page, the flames would roar,
consuming the story as it had been told,
yet had not been written by its author, to hold
She watched as it all was drawn up into flames,
the traumas and dramas all included her name
For the first time, she wrote down a story to tell
The protagonist, a person she knew very well
Up in smoke went the woman she was,
ashes created, turning to dust
The one on the outside that others would see
and the half only viewed by the one that is me
They knew not each other, as conditioned to find
what was pleasing to them, yet none of them shined
as the outer world dimmed, what came into view
was the mind and the spirit, sparkling and new
twinkling like diamonds shining forth like the sun
came their beautiful facets, second to none
like the ring she wore, she adorned it so,
and establishing their presence, she vowed then to know
who she had been, and who she became
and although, in the end, they both were the same
the creature that lived to satisfy all
awoke from sleep, to heed its call
Sitting today, with paper she writes,
complete, with joy, no sadness or fright,
creating the story, one day to share
a life so unique, and delightfully rare
***
