Shelves

Scrapbooks of life’s snapshots
collected in the cerebral library,
sorting , analyzing and defining
by how they felt in the heart.

The ones that brought tears
filed in a tome of warning labels
while the ones that summoned ,
incredible gasp in vivid vitality
leaves its imprint in the mind
unable to forget its combing of the soul.

Sifting through those pages
meticulously digesting their deeper truths
then embellishing them from the personalized portraits
preserved by scars and wounds.

And whether the portraits are beautiful or hideous,
eventually they seep into the fingertips
where they flow as profound passages,
some fantasy, others biographical,
but always preserved like a sagacious scroll
with the goal being to quill the enduring quintessence
so it might serve as a literary gem of acumen’s shimmer
that could be a guide to readers on their own journeys.

What an artwork when it glows as a testament
from the evolution of clarity and understanding,
what a sadness if each chapter
is another tale with a sad ending
because the reflections encountered
were never truly allowed to impact one’s future actions
just record, OMG, I did it again.