A hefty, burdensome book;
Too many pages,
Difficult to understand.
No shiny glitter covers,
Rugged and dusty;
Imprinted with notes of his soul,
In the corner of a Shelf,
With massive worth.
Individuals skim the shell;
To estimate its worth;
Discerning unpleasant; to the eyes,
Omitted; to go through it.
A deserted book; with no keeper,
Or anyone to auction;
Gawking; at the lucky ones.
Those writers made them,
Delicately.
Observers admire them; fondly.
Not being one of those,
Forms a deep lump,
Down his core; a sigh.
He wished; he was one of them.
Having memories in return,
For every breath they take.
While here, he feels another ache,
With every single glimpse.
Blue; in tears;
He turns brown and flaky.
Casting out await; to be orated.
Once, he met a handsome admirer,
Supposed; will understand his worth,
Devoured through, A few pages;
Read it halfway and gave up,
Just like the rest.
Crumbled as usual;
He noticed something,
Down the spine;
Was it my destiny? He asked.
How to let go; facing
Another same incident,
Just in a different form.
Tired and bored, but something
That kept him alive.
He doubted, Am I unfitting for this abode?
Probably, a museum piece,
That people; admire superficially.
Sadly; he learns,
Even that never occurred.
Out of nowhere,
A bolt of lightning struck,
Through the ceiling; of the passage,
In no time, the weapon hit the book.
The book burnt; from the core,
Remaining none but ash.
Little did the book moan, but he cried.
A cocktail of emotions; rose from,
Blues to serenity;
No longer the burden,
On himself, will exist.
In the corner, He burnt wildly;
But, in peace, of an ice mountain.
Surrendering to the ashes,
That he transformed.
The sad-lonely path; he walked,
More than anyone, often alone.
He walked alone, this one too.
This time for a meaning;
That ends in him.
What a tragic irony;
Places from,
All over the world; gathered,
At his dead site.
Called it a relic; and
Masterpiece; of those times.
Ones that crushed him;
Failed to price it; Lusted;
For once, a worthless,
Piece of garbage,
They claimed.
Now turned to golden ash.
But the truth is; worth of things,
Is understood; only when they;
Cease to exist.
Such is the case for me.
But unfortunately, I am not a book.
-bubblehead95