I stepped back and took a look
At the pages of my life,
as if it were a book
I journeyed to where life began
through everything I'd tried to cram
into its measly pages.
I went through all I thought I knew
at all my different ages
And noted well that as I grew
I went through many stages
Of wisdom, life and dreams
and love and faith in God
and I returned to all of the places
my wandering feet had trod
There are things written there
I'd tear out if given chance
Perhaps increase font size
To emphasize a circumstance
But who will read it when I'm gone?
And really, does it matter?
If the choice be publish or destroy
I'd likely choose the latter
My eyes wandered to passages
worn by my fingers leading
I wondered at my ignorance
in my choice of reading
what good is it to go through life
just knowing your own story?
if I read yours, and you read mine
now that would be a glory
