Self-written Poetry

Sea of knowing

I open the diary, ready to read and write

down what I need to know, but

the black as shadow ink has blurred

into the now flaxen pages that

used to be blanc. That vain place, I stared.

Shaking fingers, skin lined with trenches,

fluttering nearer to papercuts as something

which went unrecognized hovered near

yet, without even a bounjor, quickly

flitted away as salty rain

entered her mumbling lips.

Hands with nary a valley,

seemingly of

cream and satin,

took the aide-memoire

as the tides of memory

left grandma's shores