The Book
A bounded book so frayed at the seams
Whose pages are missing of journeys and dreams.
Neglected and torn, then thrown away too fast
No more stories to tell of treasures and pasts.
Or mothers singing to their babies
The sweet notes of lullabies.
Now a discarded object left with a withering cry.
A cry for help to be loved and touched again
Hoping to save its once glorious tales
With a patch or a mend.
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