Today I turned a page
And a new chapter leapt
From the unread, to read;
Forty five lost, not kept.
I turned another page
But I cannot turn back
No hope to again read
Those pages written black.
Each page of my ___ script
Is read but once, not twice.
Each act of my ___ play
is played out only one night.
As I turn each page
It crumbles in my hand,
Slipping through my fingers
Like tiny grains of sand.
Yet read on shall I, for
The end is still untold.
Climax not summited
My story, it will unfold.
Today I turned a page
And tomorrow, again.
No, the author’s not done
And yes, I hold the pen.
– Eric Winger
