Snubbed remnant of this line
A book, that is but, mine.
Some pages therein, they
Remain blank, pearly – white.
There are no stories, there are no tales,
They are just dreams
Ruffians strayed into daylight.
Several pages are murky
Others, torn
One stamped and some forlorn.
Where was the dawn?
Desuetude shall be whence?
Blood is smeared ink
Almost faded in penance.
Thin are thy pages
Frail even to tactility
It will not be read
Ever, thy is mere unholy sages...
