Life Book Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

What depth is there,
in the thought of one's life;
one written in chapters of decades,
or pages of years;
either illustrated fully,
in life's vivid colours;
or composed on faded linens,
of a death soaked shroud.

Could yours be written,
in articulate words of spirit;
or scribbled in mindless verse,
and weakly penned within a moment
of your wretched life's last breath;
then cast into the void,
with the rest in their sin?

Each life book ever written,
is one's source of unrest;
in the fight to have in writing,
a lifetime's true tests;
of everyone's battles in life,
to do what's deemed best;
to evolve in one's self,
up to the step that comes next.

Is your book bound in lambskin,
and scrolled in guild inscription;
are the pages embossed,
with treasured accomplishments;
and stood tall together,
with leather bound volumes vast;
and full, with a pure life's,
precious sentimental wish?

Where on life's shelves,
are we all stacked together;
life pressed to life,
in thin novelettes each so bland;
experience splendid,
along with those seeped in vice;
souls dripping together,
in the flowing river of life.