Books judged by broken bindings,
Not by the pages that hide the findings.
Endings not printed on the back,
Deceiving pictures in the jacket flap.
Chapters of past etched in black,
The numerals of those pages always stack.
Distant chapters written in invisible ink,
Yet visible in only a blink.
Appearing with the minute hand.
Take a second where you stand.
Because your book is never complete,
Until the antagonist lay in defeat.
So forget the prologue,
It never sells the story anyway.
Fill your pages with memories everyday.
Because it is you,
That makes your book come true.
And once the book is closed you can never undo.