I am but a book for you,
To reveal all you wish to know
About love, death, wonderment,
Entail, encurtain, perhaps even
Leave me out for the wind to
Blow about my pages and bend my corners
To candlelight in severance of reality,
Lay about to try to understand me,
And reveal my mystique,
For I am an artifact for long,
Simply in new binding every time,
Like you, I am Recreated,
So ancient a tome for you to dip pen in ink,
And rewrite whatever chapters I have blank,
Fill in the spaces with the words,
I wish to feel and you wish to express,
Perhaps love even is our own book,
Blank or already written that we could have,
Or we have to search for,
Scorch with the harshness of your scrutiny,
Charred slightly feeling significant,
So alone by the time you have rifled
Through me tired eyes hanging,
Put back on the shelf to simply gather dust,
Alone with nothing but paper,
And after angry for not figuring me out you replaced me,
For the book with the brighter cover.