My life was once a life of uncertainty,
I was always contented yet unhappy alone
Suppose I die now, I pass life lonely
And end my life’s pages on my own
But on these poor sketches of my life, I have viewed,
You came in the picture unannounced, unassured
And so in the middle of my story I seek to conclude
That page would not be crumpled by mistakes or erasures.
You were on that page, but a little red dot
That I did not try to scratch off or mix with another
For you look quite stand out on your given small slot
Where you consumed all eyes, all spaces on my paper
But I have not given you so much of my interest
For your part; I thought was finite in my sense
But then again it seems to me I made an unreasonable guess
It came up to me that you were the reason for my existence
With all the pages I painted with black and chaos, mocking brushes
The page where you are stands lighted and compassionate
I wish to find peace, to burn that book of mine to ashes
But I cease being foolish to save that little dot’s page.
