The Page


The Page, once blank and pure,
Now filled with hate and rage.

As The Child scribes his thoughts,
The lines become his stage.

Acted out on paper,
Each letter plays a part.

As the child pens in ink,
All that's in his heart.

In scenes that He directed,
The author writes his fate.

The Page contains the key,
But The Keeper is too late.

Once a bastion of hope,
Now a cemetery of dreams.

A place where time erodes
And rivers turn to streams.

There's no reading 'tween the lines,
On The Page of loveless youth.

When innocence is tainted,
The lies become the truth.

The words begin to blur,
Lines buckle under stress.

As The Page comes to an end,
The Child needs to rest.

-

Last in my Child In A Box series. Comments welcomed.

Thanks for reading!

I love it, as usual......shame it's the end of the child in a box series as I've found those poems so reflective of the experiences and perceptions of people I have met in my past.
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