Inside her home exists a room of tomes
Of gentle hearts that only want to be
Read by the girl that never likes to roam
The rows of books addressed to none but she.
Mine sits among the oldest of the scrolls
Aimed at a hardened heart that never cared.
Two million words my magnum opus holds
And stays unfastened but has never shared.
But wait! She’s come inside the holy room
And roams the rows of heavy, hopeful hearts
To happen on my own account. With gloom
She sees my ragged, beaten, leather parts.
Great sense it makes to keep an old book closed
When new works are efficiently composed.