The book just sat there, open,
with the words outstretched across the page.
It as as if someone had started it,
and then forgot it.
The words lay there half empty.
It is like an unfinished life, it starts;
But the words just sit there.
The notes are taken;
but no one is there to type it out.
You have the thought of it;
but you can't find the incentive to put forward.
Then next thing you know,
the old runs in with the new.
You start to forget;
and start anew.
So the Open Book sits there.
The dust rests upon it.
While the reader starts to carry on with life.