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.