She turned the page searching for tomorrow;
it wasn’t there in the parchment fold
but, she was sure, a watermark of sorrow
licked its lips for a story to be told;
so she obliged with broad sweeping strokes,
Indian- inked words spilling the tale
of love won and lost amid bicycle spokes
and handle-bars skewed as if to impale.
Perhaps her flourish was a little too free,
exaggeration a foe she mistook for a friend,
for just as she reached the climactic point
her page overflowed and provoked a quick “End”.
