You have found a notebook on the ground
A bit dusty and a bit old
Open to a page not yet complete
With doodles and scribbles of unknown sense,
You take a moment to contemplate
The strange object lying at your feet –
It is not yours; why is it there, open?
You hesitate but pick it up,
An unsure hand flips it around
As a finger deftly saves the page.
Slowly you start strolling through the years
Walking besides the silent shadow
From room to room, from song to song,
You see the smiles, you smell the tears,
You hear the warmth, you feel the lone.
As you wonder “Is this okay?”
You see your name written in blue
And elegant yet childish cursive
At the bottom of the next page.
You stop. The next breath comes less easy,
And the hearts seems to skip a bit,
You look again yet there it is, clear,
Passed blue letters on golden page,
What does this mean? What should you do?
The universe begins to collapse
And another is born instead
When finally you let, intrigued,
The adventure call you once more
Just as the ocean did that day,
You sail the seas of ink and paper
Carried always further by gales of thoughts,
It feels refreshing and yet familiar
But your finger eludes the clue
So, as your mind races the waves
Of memories and dear old hopes,
Your heart desperately tries to catch up
To the ship at the horizon.
Will you or will you not make it?
What the future holds is uncertain
Though your are sure, you somehow know,
The goal will be worth the journey
And the journey shall be the goal,
You turn the page and then no more –
The blank. Fear could arise, and panic too,
But a smile creeps upon your lips –
Oh you know it will be alright;
A feather falls into your palm
As you start writing one more verse,
‘Tis not the last, ’tis not the first,
‘Tis the one that means the least
To the forest of thunderclouds
And yet, perhaps, that says the most:
You are the sweet verve to my bitter symphony.
Video killed the radio star.