Your book, your gift,
Your brand new obligation.
The pages, so crisp,
Demand your fascination.
The lines of small, black imagination,
That scroll across the pages,
Set your head all to crumbles,
Along with your gasps and your mumbles
That would be reviews otherwise.

The highlighting dabs of your little red pen,
Thin and quick like your wrists writing,
Or eyes reading,
Rip across the shreds of your interpretations.
The pages bleed with your questions;
Gutted by your mind’s eye’s imperfections.

Slither toward the ending and finish the execution,
Marked pages and a bent spine
Couple nicely with a ruined mind
And all that soaked, drowned, barrowed time.
Unwrapped and under-read,
Your gift now lingers wasted in your head,
Fingers still showing sings of how it bled,
And still no solemn tears of remembrance
For the hopeful glances of jackets or reviews
Fall down the cheeks of the head of abuse.

It’s done now.
Lower your gaze to the ground.
Stop staring,
Stop caring,
Stop wondering how.