Bookshelf

The book upon the bookshelf,

was old and filled with dust.

It stood there day to day,

the solider at its post.

The book was everlasting,

with pages so complete,

crammed with infinite surprises,

making realities into dreams.

The book held many passages,

which could never be replaced.

The memories were priceless,

becoming one of life’s greatest indulgences.

The book was sentimental,

without it was a struggle,

I’d reminisce of abandonment,

becoming gradually overwhelmed.

Approaching true reality,

rejection was a delusion.

It abided day to day,

attending to my needs.