As the days turn over slowly, like the pages in a book
every chapter holds a dream that makes you take a second look,
every interwoven meaning clasps an image to its heart
until their rhythmic comprehension lets the images depart,
and the pages flutter softly in the evening's gentle flow
like the dancing hours of darkness, in the moonlight's magic glow,
while the distant peal of church bells casts their music everywhere
leaving echoed conversations drifting faintly on the air.
And from the book, each word is caught in lonely mist bound skies
as daylight slowly sparkles from each evening's sleep filled eyes,
then each word is tethered tightly to the chapters of the day
as they drift upon the sunlight in their own enlightened way,
like a paragraphed eternity meandering along
on the harp strings of forever, as they paint each living song,
and those dancing shadowed portraits flicker gently as they pass
with the silver sun's reflections through the dewdrops on the grass.
And as each chapter wends its way, and as each die is cast
without the knowledge whether it will be the first or last,
upon each page repeatedly, the finger marks remain
like birth or death, like rich or poor,like joy, or rage or pain,
until at last the words dry up, like raindrops in the sun
and there's just no way of knowing what has gone and what's begun,
for the bookmark never tells you of the pages gone before
and the book will only finish at the closing of the door...
