If you come across me on the shelf, I may be archaic and forlorn. The open book with too many tales, But all the pages are torn. I hold with me nights, In places I shouldn't have been. I carry with me special things, And those I hope never to see again. I've been told I wear my heart on my sleeve, With just enough secrecy to get by. And I've found candles don't hold their flame, In the cold December nights. A dust jacket of innocence and threat, Of curlicued patterns and gilt. If I never set eyes on tomorrow, My pages would fail to be filled. Words are a paint born of many hues, Caught in the battle of beauty and rage. Go ahead and read me--I dare you to, And for me leave a tear on the page. You think you have me figured out, But everything is a prologue. The main attraction lies unwritten; My closing chapter, a dent in the fog.