Lines of Identity

Faded notes from the days when I thought I could fly,

now scribbles and loops that seem to sigh.

Each letter I formed, a fragment of me,

now unrecognizable, lost in debris.

An old professor’s words, a call to create,

but the ink stains a testament to time’s heavy weight.

Once flowing and bold, now trembling and small,

remnants of stories that never stood tall.

Ghosts of my past dance across the page,

scribbles of youth now muted with age.

Yet here I sit, pen trembling in hand,

wondering if I could still somehow stand.