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I'm packing. Or I was at least. In the middle of what I'd like to describe as a productive frenzy when I came to a grinding halt as I discovered papers. It's a miracle I still have any important papers because they tend to end up 'placed' somewhere. Unfortunately, those 'places' aren't generally discovered until something as dramatic as moving every single object in my house.
Back to the subject though. In these papers as I went through each one, I discovered a yellowed piece of paper with a typewritten poem on it. It matches some of what I was saying last week, so I wish I'd found it earlier but it's still a great poem, so I thought I'd use it as an excuse to take a break from packing share it with you.

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Upon a stand a book does rest,
of all the books this one's the best.
The cover's soft, the color's red,
My Book of Life, the title said.

The book's so rare it can't be sold,
the title words are etched in gold.
But does this cover try to hide,
the tear-stained pages trapped inside.

Some pages torn by hurt and pain,
the ink spilt here and left a stain.
A missing page that grief ripped out,
the blank page here is filled with doubt.

The part right here in blood was wrote,
and it's the most important note.
The One who wrote His name is true,
my name belongs in His book too.

He is the one who made this book,
a gift to me and that I took.
To show that I appreciate
to Him this book I dedicate.

This book's not done, my life lives on,
but when it ends and I am gone.
My heart has only one desire,
another book it might inspire.