Mary

I used to belong to somebody else’s book,
To somebody else’s stories
I’m reading my book now
I’ve finally found it
Buried, but almost as if scratching underneath the surface
To be felt, heard, found and read
Of course its pages were blank at first
And they’d remain that way for some time
The time it took for me to understand;
A few pages began to appear then
Word by word they crawled and piled until the end of a chapter
And then another, emerging and flowing like magma
Sprouting blackest ink that stains the paper
And then it ceased, for the next chapter I am not ready to see
Not even ripe or nurtured enough by experience
Things the world still hides from me, will soonly bestow
And one day soon the pages will start and turn again
In the meantime… HAPPILY INCOMPLETE