I am an open book.
The one you thought you could understand
In one go, as you flip through the pages.
A fair warning, that I may be fun,
But not a leisure read.
You have to read all the lines
And everything between them.
The pretty one dorning your coffee table is sure not me,
I am the dusty, boring, big leather bound edition
Sitting at the corner of your shelf.
The one you thought you would eventually read,
But have given up the laborious task.
I am an open book.
The one you thought you had read it all through.
But as prose and poems fill more pages
And couplets are transformed into chapters,
You get farther from the end.
Perhaps I am bound to remain incomplete,
So how much you read doesn’t even matter.
Sure, I am an open book,
Just not the one anyone has finished reading yet.
Quillosophy 