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Dogeared, the pages of my life are now crystal clear

Irony, you never miss me

When writing, no living, those chapters was I, the book was fine, to crimp and line

Smelling new too. But I was a blind man, a blind careless man throwing punches at the typewriter

Irony, an ironical word indeed. 
Starts unfazed, like the strongest pillar, the northern star, ferrous-iously (ferociously)

And ends in the iffiest possible way, like a melting block of ice. 

Hopeful, I lift my pen again. Or try to

But is this pen heavier now with memory or my hand much weaker - I do not know.

Hope, I had a pocketful and some more.

More than the sand under the seas, I felt like its heir and master too

Doggedly though, life makes equals of us all

Some in death and I in my absence of the life I used to know

Dogeared, I return to the book you once gave me.

And wish I’d never learned to read.