Filling a book of futures with planned desires
Hopes are mounted like empty photographs
Whose pictures we supply,
Each image, when it’s due, removed
And pasted in the book of me on the page of now
Painted with reality,
Time passes and each life moves on with its own pulse
Marking moments as the turn of chapters,
Marking moments as the flicking of pages
That fill the heart with recollections
Of joys and pains and the mind’s reflections.
And hope’s pictures unachieved gently rest as feathers in the book of fallen dreams.