The Last Page

My hand cramped
as I wrote the final words
across the page. Its black
leather cover had guarded
its contents well.

It does not know it's age,
I am certain it is fully
unaware of it. Only a
sentimental creature could
care about such things.

The pages are all filled
with half-remembered
thoughts, bad poems,
memories, and line
breaks too casual

to remember. Why
do this? Who is this
all for? It's always been
for an audience of one
and always will be.