and old washed up tale.

the cover has beauty. it pictures fields of green, with rolling hills.
trees are dispersed, some withered, most cursed.
deep roots peak the surface, as if whats beneath just doesn't comply with the turmoil and agony that lies inside.
each screams for light, but holds silence at their trunk in the darkness of night.
yearning for life.
the sun is climbing up over the hills, but is confused for diving to receive its cheap thrills.
the table of contents holds the unknown. so many trails of possibility.
in one hand, rich and fame.
in the other ditches and lame.
but one thing is for certain.
there is a prologue. a chapter 1. and an epilogue.
the book has been written.
but drifting further and further in to the night, the book sits and its beauty is lost in the fright.
its replaced with dust, and stories of what could be.
but one thing is for certain.
at some point we return to chapter 1.
although we left at 3, chapter 1 feels so enticing.
to see the things of what were that supposedly set us free.
to the things that will be of chapter 23.
the complaints of strife, and anger that lead to apathy.
reside in the fact that there was joy, and laughter full of memories.
but one thing is for certain.
the book has been written.
there is an ending.
an 'about the author' is there.
there is no need to worry.
no need to scare.
the book has been written.
we need only to ask where.