You see, you read a book, you are done with a page, you flip over, you move on to the next one.
Repeat.
Until you reach page no. 88
Your fingers run over the rough edges.
It's the strangest of all.
The shimmer all gone.
What is it with this one, you wonder.
You notice it's a different story.
The sunshine peaks, but no more radiant.
Looks like it has had enough of survival.
The scribbles almost not visible.
From what you still manage, you know it's beautiful.
Although whatever the story tells, whatever it has gone through, seems like a mystery now.
The grays threatening to rub off the words.
Why all the gibberish for just one page, you might think.
I'll tell you.
When you look out through the car window
while you're stuck in traffic,
the old man you see,
Yes yes right there, sitting on the pavement,
Counting his beloveds,
The detached buttons he so lovingly collects from the street.
It's him.
Who knows, it also could be the lady standing right next to you in line for immigration.
Or maybe it's you.
Or maybe it is just a mere page from an old book you're reading.
YOU ARE READING
Verses of Yours Truly
PoetryInspirational: #399 out of 8.88k (17 February 2020) Poems: #795 out of 87.1k Thoughts: # 678 out of 72.9k ( 20 April 2020) Poems on random stuff of life. Quite sure the readers will be able to put themselves in the position of the speaker of the p...
