[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.