History was my teacher
Telling me
where I was from.
What my name was.
What I'm made of.
Making sure I'd find
My way back home
No matter how far
I stray away.
The present is my friend
Who walks with me
Hand in hand
As we leave footprints
On the sand.
Who stays with me
Through the storm
When everything else
Seem to crumble
The future is a letter
Waiting to be opened
And read
With both anticipation
And dread.
It's a map
Of roads yet to be traversed
And destinations
Yet to be discovered.
YOU ARE READING
A Graveyard Of Words
PoetryA poetry collection ------------------- My words will just die without having been read My voice will only be swallowed by the cavern of thoughts without leaving an echo My stories will cease to exist. COMPLETED. ©bil garcia/ flightywords
