With the stroke of a pen, 

and a dot of ink,

a chapter ends.

A page flips,

and a new chapter begins.

The pen’s work is not done yet.

With a swish

and a swirl

the pen begins again.

But I pull at the pages,

wanting to go back.

The pen moves forward quickly

but I ignore it, grab it, try and slow it down. 

I search for the life of former chapters —

with rose-colored glasses propped on my nose.

This chapter,

the one I’m currently in,

is rapidly approaching an end.

And the closer this chapter gets to closing

the more I claw at those closed pages.

The pen strokes faster.

I scramble quicker.

I claw harder.

But it is a fight I will never win.

For there is nothing I can do against the pen or the hand of time which guides it.