“Will it end like this?”
Dried flower-stained,
imprinted,
and impressed,
the ink pools
in those vellum
page-depressions.
“Answer me, scribe!”
Handmade pulp,
seasonal,
(always artisanal) and
bespoke from mistakes.
I misspoke on the way
my printed life’s diction
caused such friction
that it left a burn
between end
and beginning.
“Scribe!”
There was never
a chronicler, a scrivener,
or a guide.
I wrote the pages of my life.
I pressed the dead flowers
deep inside, and somehow
felt surprised
when the stains seeped
into the page,
into my eyes.
Green is the cover
and green is the iris.
©️ CG Tenpenny, 2018.
