Writer of time

The words flew off my fingertips onto the paper burning thoughts of time onto the yellowish parchment.

Memories of childhood soaked into the paper like the tears of a child who cannot find his mother.

Sideways writing of my teenage years messed up much like I was most of those years if not all of them

Rolled up edges torn during deep thought or remembrance of times troubled with doubt.

I am a writer of time, a messenger of days past and times yet to be and all are my thoughts and mine alone

In the end, I will begin again only this time I will understand all that I did not.

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