With the stroke of a pen

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.