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.

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