To the Book I’ve Read Fifteen Times

Dearest story, with yellowing bent pages

you sit, a tired old man, on the brink

of my bookshelf.

You want to jump, I can tell.

You’ve been read dry.

Borrowed and returned,

pulled by unfamiliar hands,

dog-eared and tattered,

you show my inner damage.

With your words, you

made me new –

with your ending,

made me old again.

How many lifetimes have I spent

rattling around in your skeleton?

Not nearly enough.

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12 thoughts on “To the Book I’ve Read Fifteen Times

  1. Hey, I really liked this poem. But what I really want to thank you for is the quote you have from Hawthorne in your header. The timing for reading it now was right on, thank you ๐Ÿ™‚

  2. Your books are as alive as mine… But you gave them a new life in this poem. On a second note, What an abused book ๐Ÿ˜›

Thoughts? I love those.

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