The book

The book is long.

The book is full of pages and chapters,

everyone knows that.

Some are filled with hopes of happy-ever-afters,

that may never be fact.

Others consist of trials and pain, 

that leave us with a pile in our brain. 

 

The turning of the page is like the passing of the days, 

there are many twists and turns. 

There’s good ones, there’s bad ones, but from each, we learn.

They teach us, not to crash and burn.

They teach us, we get what we earn.

 

A new book just off the press, waxy clean cover, 

new to the world,

untarnished by the struggle it is soon to discover.

Though its story is written, it is not yet told.

That is of course, until it gets old.

Though all are different, each fit some mold.

 

An old book pulled off the shelf, emerged from the past,

stories long forgotten, preserved within the layers

of dust, and memories, and facts.

The world has left its mark, and to the world it did the same.

now it's in the dark, melding to the grains.

 

A book untouched, no marks on its face, 

surely a talent gone waste.

its pages, hard, 

its message, barred,

purely a dream un-chased.

 

A book touched too much, frayed at the spine,

surely enjoyed by mankind.

Its pages, torn, 

its message, worn,

purely a dream aligned.