(This poem is a tribute to Sir Alan Rickman)
I’ve been given this book
Which seems not to end,
No matter how many nights I spend.
If I’m supposed to read it or write,
I’m not very sure.
I think, I should’ve asked this before.
There are lines in permanent ink,
Then there are blanks for me,
To fill with episodes of sorrow and glee.
When will the next line show up,
I am not told.
It may be right when I open the very next fold.
And then with this pen,
I am to mould the words of my own
So that they match the book’s general tone.
I’m not aware yet
If I control the plot at all,
But it’s binding now, that I take the fall.
I’ve messed up pages some
With ink smudges.
I’ll fix them later, before he judges.
I have folded these pages
Like the ones with smiles,
To see later, ’cause I’ve got limitless miles.
If I am a mere character
Or the author,
I do not now bother.
O Horror! This bulky book of mine
Is ending quite,
When just yesterday it had pages all right.
There will be just moments now
Before the darkness overtakes the light.
Am I to go without a fight?
To fix the smudges now,
I have no time,
But before I go, I’ll give you that chime.
I’ll just open a random page
Before I go,
And will just think it was meant to be so.
I opened the one where
“After all this time?” she says,
And I just say, “Always.”