Memories of an Old book
The pages of my old book
hold my memories of yesterday,
every smile, every tear,
every person who came my way.
Each page whispers a story:
one of love’s first bloom,
another of heartbreak’s sting,
a third guarding secrets I dare not speak.
Whoever lays eyes on its pages
has glimpsed the depth of me,
for in them are written
my worst fears and my darkest days,
my glorious moments
and the dreams I chased.
And now my hand pens the final words,
an epilogue to a journey long traveled.
Its last lines mark my farewell
as I step beyond the final margin.
When I am gone, and you find my book,
hold it close, but share no tale.
Let its chapters rest in silence.
Let it be a prelude to your own story.
For the pages of your own book
will hold your memories of tomorrow,
every joy, every pain,
every person who comes your way.
R