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There was never a first page.

However much it is written;

However more its passages

Are scribed into this diction.

 

Whatever may be said

Or whichever line is read

One will answer to the dead

Gaiety that sits now - silent and sad.

 

For in the realm of silence

Is found the coats of loneliness.

So very light to wear upon heavy shoulders.

Yet too a burden to set down – anywhere.

 

Too alone to be distracted.

Much too busy a gala to wait.

And so, the walk is a feather’s tract.

However, sleep will have a date.

 

Along the ways there is a path

To be found even when all is lost

While the story asks, “At what cost”.

Stumbling and falling into self-wrath.

 

The first page says it was fate.

The last page will ponder,  “Why”.

And the rainbow choir sings of glory

While the eulogy exalts the quiet face.