There was a little blue book,
with red ribbons that pulsed between pages,
And black and purple ink that ran amok across blank paper.

Little-blue was filled with poetry,
It flowed freely from the mind onto parchment,
So naturally that it was like respirating. Vital.

Happy poems about the radiating sun,
The changing of the seasons and nature,
And of course about love. Above all about love.

Then something shifted, as these things tend to do.
And Little-blue lost its pull and comfort.
Ribbons tattered, ink distorted and splashed.

Somewhere between a city and a starry sky,
Little-blue was tossed out and left,
Maybe for someone new, or perhaps just to rot.