A Book

Turning and turning one page after another,
Fascinated by the evolution of a person
Almost strange to me , I find myself.
Drawn in by the images unveiled,
Occassionally unencumbered by duty,
This book I am must have been written
By someone with an intricate mind.
Reading the footnotes, I find
There have been many editors.
Then, just as I begin to close it,
Something catches my attention,
Not at the beginning , but somewhere
There in the middle of the most scribbled part.
Pages and pages slipped in between pages.
Someone  is here, in bright descriptive phrases,
Lighting the grayer paper of me.

Celeste A. Cafasso's Questions:

Is the topic of reading people too obscure?  Does the outside influence of others come across clearly calling them "editors"?

Perhaps an Understanding


The fantasy has faded fast.
Reality is what it is.
Perhaps the sadness settles
Like  the end of summer,
In colder holding hands.

The glimpse of fires
Warming in the sounds
Where loving poets read
To lovers wrapped in awe
Has set more clearly this misfit.

The horizon is not crimson now.
The treeline grabs and chokes
The life from unsuspecting traveler.
Just one thought more will bring the end
To illusional delusions of the mind.

Celeste A. Cafasso's Questions:

Is there too much abstraction in indicating ending a realationship/.... second stanza is supposed to indicate that the writer feels left out.....is that image clear?