Looking back at the tear-stained pages

Or the fantastical flurry

Or even the self-beating words of a young mind,

I find something sweet and fitting

In the art of permanence.

Words spoken, simply they fall.

Yet, those that find the drawn lines

Are kept at bay.

Words, that are not merely words;

Feelings, not merely a wind but an ocean.

While life may find its bitter end

Or a love so transient find solace in a grave,

There remains those youthful tales

Of an internally caving mind

Etched into our very historia.

The sweet permanence of fitting art

So long as they are penned, they will claim time itself.

© 2018 Sapientiam ALL RIGHTS RESERVED