[I sit drawing lines...]

I sit drawing lines on tattered pages,

Stained from its years tucked away,

Yellowed and as worn as my heart

Beating wistfully in its white-ribbed cage.

I sit drawing lines on an open palm,

Reciting the life, the love, the wealth,

Trying to match them to my existence,

Yet seeing nothing; I never was psychic.

My past is a haze of thought,

My future just as blurred,

Lines hold my present fast

And for now, it is enough.