MY FIRST BOOK.

Its material was short
But seemed long
On account of events,
And intentionally clear
But too opaque
To be measured as meant.

Its colour was dark
But too light
To be thought of as art,
And its tendency loose
But too fixed
To admit it was that.

It stayed in a home,
Not its own,
As it wasn’t of age,
And slept through the day
And the night
Whilst awake on the page.

It was incredibly clever
But not smart
Enough for its promotion,
And apparently receptive
But not in tune
With the publics’ emotion.

It lived with a cover,
But no real one,
As fraternity had fired it,
And did not have another
As its binding
Did not know who hired it,

And died without showing
But was sure
It would make it one day,
And was buried alone
But with more
Chance of being read in the clay.