The Last Page of a Book

The edges worn, the spine creased tight,
I cradle the book in the fading light.
Its chapters weave like threads in a loom,
A life unspooled, from birth to bloom.

Each page, a mirror, each word, a guide,
Echoes of my own, where truths reside.
Through every hero, every fall,
I found my shadows, I found my all.

The turning leaves, they whispered clear,
"Your story, too, is written here."
In love's sweet pangs and battles fought,
In dreams pursued, in lessons taught.

The final page, it looms ahead,
A bittersweet farewell to what's been read.
But stories end, as all things must,
And in their dust, we place our trust.

For what we gleaned, what we became,
Is etched within, like a steady flame.
No tale forgotten, no line erased,
Each adds to the map our heart has traced.

And as the book’s last words unfold,
I feel their warmth, their quiet hold.
A life well-lived, a tale well-told,
Both leave us richer, bold, consoled.

So here I sit, as twilight crooks,
Reflecting on life, the last page of my books.

- Khushi Kaul