Title: A4
by Arjun from London | in writing, poetry
They say that when one person dies another is born,
Hence the tree falls down and paper emerges,
Crisp. Clean. New. Fresh. Soft.
The pen touches the paper and the paper matures,
Is it a novel, a poem or just some scribbles,
Smooth. Increasing. Simple. Small. Open.
The 'art' develops and becomes pages of ink or graphite,
A book is created lead by the front cover and told by the blurb,
Grown. Developed. Matured. Complete. Ready.
Is the book sold...or is it shredded, page by page,
This one strolled down the wrong path and is in a pile of strips,
Failure. Broken. Rejected. Neglected. Dead.
This paper took that ride to recycling road,
A second chance as a Starbucks cup,
Revived. Refreshed. Renewed. Redesigned. weaker.
Thinking about the life cycle of a person and the choices one has to make, I felt that this can be related to paper and the journey of paper. This poem is really about one's journey through life.
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