Her life was like an open book
Its pages fluttering everywhere
She lay upon the derelict table
Gathering dust and lacking care

There had been a swell bunch now
Who had tried to read her text
Yet all returned her back complaining
That she was far too complex

But one fine day, a young man
Picked up the dusty little book
He simply opened the velvet cover
Just to gather a fleeting look

The pages were filled with poetry
Sonnets, ballads, haiku and quatrains
He grew so engrossed in that book
That he failed to put it down again

Thus she stood true to her maxim
As her back cover would define
"I can only be perused by him
Who can read between the lines"

~s.a.