I look back on my life
and see countless pages
left unwritten.
I am in the epilogue now,
only two short sheets left
until the end of my tale.
This should be my
happily ever after,
yet instead
it is only a reminder
of my wasted potential.
So many words I could have said,
places I could have seen
stories I could have lived.
The pages are blank,
chiding,
mocking me for what
I didn’t do.
I want to write something
on those abandoned pages.
To spin a new story,
a new adventure.
But these pages are behind me,
and there are not enough pages
ahead of me
to start something new.