The Unwritten Chapter

Not on a page, nor in a bounded book,

My story is not as the world mistook.

It is not written in a measured hand,

But in the quiet where my thoughts are fanned.

The pen is not of metal, ink, or plume,

But carved from shadows in a lonely room.

The inkwell holds no simple, common black,

But all the hues of everything I lack.

The cerulean rush of a rushing stream,

The silver-grey of a half-remembered dream.

The violent scarlet of a wordless fight,

The ashen white of a surrendered night.

I dip my quill in silence, deep and stark,

While daylight fades and vanishes the lark.

I trace the arcs of conversations past,

And watch the fragile, perfect sentences cast.

This library exists for me alone,

A silent world of flesh and blood and bone.

A tragic epic, beautiful and grand,

Written by my own heart's trembling hand.

And though the narrative is lined with pain,

I cannot cease, nor tear the page in twain.

For in this text, my deepest truth is known,

A story of a love I called my own.