An Open Book Poem by Shubham Agnihotri

An open book like an open ocean,
A blank notebook like a blank sky,
It has numerous odes, anecdotes, and tales
Written in a language of love so terrific;
But the words mean the way esoteric.
The blank pages glow like gentian in the garden,
Awaiting for the ink to draw something, someone.

People don't read the pages they should,
They shuffle the sheets as a child would,
They don't get its own world and they chide,
Still, the open book smiles enough wide.
They try to tear the pages and pull it out to crumble,
Its heart stretches long enough like elastic and they fumble,
A gust of wind comes and turns over it, and scribbles.

Indeed, no reader will be called an infidel,
It has faith in the sole tamed but pure reader,
In this long binding of the life's papers,
It has turned and left some beautiful dog-ears.
'Who' knows it right when it can't be inscribed.
It leaves some pages with smudges and discolorations,
To be understood by those who can't read simple letters.