It was only the beginning of the beginning
Of an uncommon, story book.
I read it, as I wasn't clueless about it's meaning.
Serena frowned as she gave it a look,
It's cover was simply, but unbearably shining.
I felt that there was a lot of time the writer took,
To write such a unique piece.

I read, but there was a lot more to those pages,
The emotions, memories of his ages.
Serena thinks that the book is an emotional melodrama,
She likes practical books with an emotional core,
Those of which deal with the lifestyle of Einstein to Obama.
I thought of the hidden jacket the book wore,
The writer had written something that he had wanted to,
But some vague parts raised questions,
How?- When?- Who?-
He certainly did not want to answer them,
But then why did he write his name?

My heart skipped a beat as I read about his sufferings,
The day his daughter had left him,
His life was certainly gloomy and dim.
I sobbed as I read about his mother's death.
The day he had once more called his daughter, "Dear Beth."
And how cruelly she had replied, asking who he was.
He, smiling, giving a sudden pause,
And gently, saying, "Forgive me, I thought it was her."
After reading this book, it helped me to discover,
The lonely, deeply buried inside me, a soul,
Who would have thrashed her daughter if she behaved such,
But, at the end of the day, would the anger be less or much?