A Title-less Book

Nameless; a naked leather spine,
My favorite book to read at half past nine,
Pages of old; my favorite scent,
Tears threaten my eyes if corners are bent.

Each day I read it, it’s different every time,
Sometimes a story and others; a poem of rhyme,
A name is limit, where’s the imagination?
Just let your mind go and make a creation.

My lamp illuminates the yellowish pages,
Once my mind is off and reading, everything en-cages,
The case is empty; it’s the only one on the shelf,
There are thousands of possibilities; just the book and myself.

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