The Castaway

A crumpled ball of paper,

wrinkled and forlorn,

hiding in the corner of the room

is a testimony to the rush of time.

In its younger days,

It probably was a grocery bill;

a jejune love note

written by you,

or, for you;

a pamphlet,

announcing the inauguration

of Star Restaurant in the vicinity,

ignored by you;

a train ticket,

used and forgotten.

Or, perhaps, it’s a plain sheet of paper,

which was waiting to be written on,

but the pen you held so tight,

so many years ago,

refused to touch the paper with its nib,

so it lay crumpled and unused.

unsaid words clung to water.

As they do – even now.

But if you could smoothen

your own creases,

and if your hand could reach

that corner of the room,

where lies the castaway,

you could unwrinkle that

crumpled treasure map

and continue to read where you left off;

resume your voyage,

or begin to write what you never wrote.