My Book of Life

My Book of Life

It is true you penned my book of life,
each day a temporal page.
A script for my stage play alone,
leaves to yellow as I age.

You quilled me child-like innocence,
then you dashed that right away.
You filled my heart with self-defence,
yet love got in the way.

Yes it was written that as the years rolled by,
your words doomed me to age.
Your writing spoiled the pictures,
tears and blood on every page.

When you wrote my final pages,
you left me but one bequest
You left me hope, not scripture,
for epiphany and rest.

So now in my haste to passing,
yet looking behind me as one should.
I see you penned and epitaph,
'Even the worst of times were good '