Book.

I am a cardboard cover
Protecting that which exists inside
A story of ink, tree,
And an author’s fickle muse
For that is the concept
Of which I have been.
I dream of impossible dreams,
That I might write myself
Or draw something truly meaningful:
Pictures of you, of me.
Instead, I write to you
Five by twenty in writ
That which I am, now,
Condensed into a mere plea
For your attention, my refugee.
I wrote a world upon
My first of two pages.
The last page is blank
As if seeking a story
Not contained within mere paper.