Dead Dandelions

Her red journal collects dust somewhere in the corner of her room,

As she had found another place to share her dreams and ambitions

An old diary

Sewn together with needle and thread

Pages already scribbled on

With eloquent words that inspired her to add her own

There was nothing more thrilling

Than discovering thoughts and perceptions she once believed were unique to her mind

Like an effortless conversation

Their words flowed and danced hand in hand

Composing love letters and memoirs

And visions of their joint destiny

But there was one chapter that she could not share entirely

Only because she did not yet know how

Recollections of pain from her past

That would float off the pages like dead dandelions

Leaving poisonous matter

That she could neither shoo away nor discern

And so she didn’t

Alas, the pages decayed

They turned grey and dismayed

And she was to blame

All that remained of her once treasured diary

Was debris and

One intact page

With only a few sensible words

That shook her to her very core

And inspired her to do more

Than just wordplay

To steadily build her own book-binding, to preserve and to take care,

And to perform, as this could not be the end of such a beautiful tale