A Personal Library Poem by Conor Phelan

On his shelf there are many books,
Some he has read, some he has not.
Few on love, many on battles fought.
Stashed away in this little nook.
The covers paint fantastic scenes
Of men on horseback, tall and proud.
The detail of some, just a cloud,
He will remember by any means.
But within the tattered cover
Lies a story of deception
Of one he used to call lover,
To him it seems just pure treason.
Can, or should he re-read the book,
Or discard it without second look?