Dust and Notebooks

I shouldn't wait for some stranger
to ponder the broken bits of my psyche
captured over two decades
in a dozen random notebooks
after I've turned to dust.
I need to gather the pages now, copy them
like an ancient scribe...
I'll leave behind words that dripped
like rain from wet leaves
onto blue-lined paper
each one a puzzle
the fragments, like broken fractals...
windows open then shut
Here's proof I don't know what I'm doing