THE BOOK
There was a boy who knew no joy
He was quiet and reserved
A book of prose was his only toy
But it had no purpose that is served
He read his book with a curious look
And pondered each title and line
Deep secrets held in his well read book
He tried endlessly to find
Finally he learned other books were burned
Before their secrets were found
It was knowledge they burned on each page they turned
A travesty of huge proportions he found
Now a learned man; a scholar of the book
He savors each chapter down to the page
He gives each word a fond critical look
Now each book will know endless enduring age
©Copyright June 17, 2007 by Terry D. Sutherland
This poem prompted the response, The Book
©Copyright June 17, 2007 by JJ McCloud