My Worn, Torn, Decrepid Book
The worn, torn, decepid book,
Sits in silence all alone.
Hiding stories from in and out,
Stories only it can ever own.
I want to open it, need to witness,
But its pages are welded tight.
This closed, red ribboned book,
Stares and glares defiantly every night.
This worn, torn decrepid book
Came from a beautiful loved past life.
Closed, it keeps our secrets hidden,
Safe from any past lived strife.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
