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Destiny
My pencil leaks my mind onto paper,
--etching a piece of me into forever
unless, of course, the paper is burned
or crumbled and ripped into shards which would be a horrid fate
for a leaf of paper.
--Such an innocent item
can be the basis for anger.
If one word I scribe is amiss,
Fire may burn.
But a paper can
change the world
with the correct words,
a dark heart could change
--or a life may be saved.
Suppose I was to lose this paper,
--and it was destined to fly in the air.
It would fly—
Drift—
And fly—
And where it lands is all that matters.
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