Dear Diary

What relics can a fool leave behind?
A diary as a testimony of my time?
Please let is not be so,
there are horrifying tales my scriptures could show.
Accounts of red glow, and of eyes
investigating the ashtray during the quiet
interludes between the short-lived laughs.
Or details of dreams deemed as fantasy,
and the recorded instances of my vanity.
The conversations that took place,
hours after my companion and I had parted ways,
Are these to be the legacy of my mind?

Oh, dear Diary, this must be done. Song sing your tales in your crackling way.
Tell how the court’s clown jested in his play.
Sing your song and in your rhymes’ clinking clatter,
I’ll tear out your pages and cross out each letter,
set these pages to a modest, diminutively dim light.

Each line and every thought must take their leave, and in the in the end of your song, dear Diary, you’ll be clean.
With no tales to share, except
maybe
for that beautiful one.

By JPV