As one who understands not much,
it is growing into the ripe that the
experience we touch lives in the novel of our life.
Written by many hands, read by but a few it remains pages that stand,
typing in the kind and cruel. Word by word day by day, thought or heard
entries, what we do or say.
I inhabit the novel of my life, sitting on the current page,
be it peace or be it strife from the begining to my oldest age.
Riding ideas on and on, sometimes waiting for another page,
spending time, right or wrong; each moment ready for another stage.
Chapters past and yet to be living now and yet to know, some are held and others to see
wondering where it is all to go. Times of silence or of loud, questions asked or answers rife,
clear skys or with cloud, lives the novel of our life.