Pages.

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