Poem: The Final Page

A tear runs down my weathered face,
Ink-stained hands in still embrace.
Two decades deep in silent wars,
Fought with ghosts behind closed doors.

Each word I bled, each page I bore,
Was stitched from wounds I could not ignore.
The candle burned through countless nights,
Feeding hope with flickering light.

The desk remembers every fall,
Each crumpled dream against the wall.
Chapters lost to fear and doubt,
Characters I once lived without.

But here I sit—alone, amazed—
The final line at last is phrased.
Not perfect, no—but raw, and true,
A life rebuilt in black and blue.

The weight is gone, yet lingers still,
A quiet ache, a writer’s will.
For twenty years, this book was mine—
Now it breathes, a finished spine.

So let the tear fall where it may,
Upon the page I sign today.
It’s done. It’s done. Let silence sing—
The end of one, the start of everything.

Thank-you for reading.

Much Love and Light,

Brenda Marie