this is the blank page called
the rest of your life

pick up the pen and write

the old story
on those brittle yellow pages
will no longer do for
this crisp place that is 
the future you will write
new stories for, in dark red
ink from veins of gold
that can no longer be
the limits of your vast
imagination

in the future there is love
unending, there is joy
unbounded, there is pain
with soft enfolding wings
and tears that streak
your face but do not run 
into the cup called shame

but water those white fields
with scarlet poppies where
the golden veins of morning
light the sky and you
pick up your pen and write