In the Library

My life is like a book upon a shelf,
A little book that hides amongst the rest--
With pages torn and threatening to fall out--
A book without a title or a crest.
And if you were to open up this book,
You'd find the pages dark and soiled with guilt--
Bound by threads that frayed at merest touch--
And glue that in the fire would burn and melt.
But though this book seem barely held intact,
And barely kept from falling to decay,
The Author loves to often take it out,
And writes a few more pages every day.
He needs no fancy title framed in gold
To find my little book amongst the rest,
And though my book is worn and looking old--
I think that that is how I like it best.
For though the other books stand tall and proud,
Bright testaments to lives of happy peace,
My Author doesn't add to them as much--
But works meticulously over me.

--L.H.