I Am But an Open Book

I lay here wide open, for all to read as they pass by –

When they do; if they do.

How long it has been,

The track of time all lost.

I feel the grit from the dust piling upon my pages;

It chafes the letters – some are fading.

Sad to think the words may disappear

Without ever having been read.

The pages are deteriorating

and that hint of brown has stained the corners.

They will soon become brittle

And break off into a thousand pieces.

Ageing and deteriorating - the book sits lonely and waiting for a human hand to pick it up, and eyes to read between the pages. Author’s own Ai-generated image.

But most of all it is lonely,

Sitting here by myself all these years;

Not a hand to reach down and pick me up

To even glance at my words – wonderful words!

To read of ideas dancing across the pages

Each one turning into a new world.

I have so much to say,

Yet nobody to listen.

Here I sit, alone upon this desk,

Ready to speak to the ones who seek the wise words.

The more I age, the deeper my wisdom is felt.

But I grow weary from isolation.

Soon, the dust will cover me entirely,

Sealing me from sight.

Time will bury me deep beneath its relentless sweep

Of boredom to all in its path.

Until perhaps one day, into the future,

New hands will lift me up from under the sands of time;

And new eyes will see what Time herself could never hide.

I am but an open book.