Book Of Life

I wrote this poem for my Beppa. 

The last few pages

Of your book have come.

The canvas once blank

Now covered in over

Thirty-five thousand stokes;

Some black, some white,

Every colour of the rainbow.

Each day a new stroke;

Each day a fresh page in your book.

A beautiful story,

A beautiful picture painted.

The Artist needs only a few more strokes;

The Author, only a few more pages.

The canvas is now filled

And the book shuts one last time.

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