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,


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.

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