A Few Chapters Ahead

The Unwritten Book

My hand caresses the binding
as I shut the book,
cradling it in my arm
as I reflect on these final moments
that have been presented to me,
etched into my mind,
drawn out before my eyes,
lives I never lived
but it almost feels like I have.
Stories of fantasy and majesty,
failure and defeat,
some that mimics mine own;
whether it be in jest
or it is simply mocking me
I am unsure.
What I am sure of
is that
as I slide this novel
into its faithful slot
on my shelf,
it's time to start a new book,
new chapter,
new page.
Time to find some fresh pages
filled with the wishes and woes,
happiness and hurt,
liveliness and languish
of yet another author.
Except this time...
this time I am the writer,
and this story started long ago.
How long will it last?
Where will it go?
Even I don't know,
and I'm the one who has to pen it.
But what is clear
is that I thought I had
all the chapters written out before me,
ready to be shipped off
and sold by the hundreds.
Yet this isn't even a rough draft,
merely scratchings of dull ink
on an absorbent page,
taking in all the words
to save until the full picture is revealed,
until the entire tale can be seen.
Perhaps then I will read my work
and cringe and cry,
laugh and love,
for I'll have lived and learned by then,
and all that will be left is to look back
and pray it was enough.