You’re my dusty Old Book;
I’ve flipped your pages for so long.
Things discovered, each look,
What I thought? I had it all wrong.
Richly leather-bound Book,
Your hidden Secrets elude me.
I’ll pull you from your nook
And thumb through your tan vellum sheets.
This time I’ll see the hook
And I’ll understand the plot line.
Fourth, Tenth… Mystery Book.
You made no sense from the byline.
© CGT, 2017.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.