The book that open once

The book of life is strange: once written
it is sealed; our life it is no matter what,
the pain and anguish that came across
the milestones, our dreams.

We have been through to many places,
learning excellent things, coupled with worst,
meeting people, crossing pathways;
making chances out of luck. . , begging the prize.

How much worth our life we’ve tried to make?
pleasing all on earth while still alive;
who can judge the fortunes we’ve missed?
the book is closed we can’t open twice.

Maybe we are, or maybe not
what we’ve longed for us many years back;
Dreams are dreams forever then.
The only thing on earth without a price.

Whether we like, whether we don’t it doesn’t pay;
still we write the book, our life everyday.
Of wishes and failures. . , of the past. . , of the future;
as if the past is future turned side down up.

And when the peak of the story is reached,
and the last drop of ink falls as it stains the spot
of the endest word, retell the story to everyone
at once, ‘cause it won’t ever be opened twice. . .

-iam