This poem is about memory. It’s always amazed me about how much of our lives we can actually recall and what we seem to have lost in time, but this poem is more about revisiting the ones we do remember.
Books lined liked the words within their pages,
Pages that are guarded closely by hard cover,
It takes some determined man to open them out,
And read them each after one another.
He reads stories there he should have known well,
Tales of new life, newer love, learning, and first steps,
Turning pages in a blur of information,
Closes it to cry, but finds he has wept.
Labyrinthial library is left,
By him who has read all he wishes to read,
But the books cry out for attention for someone,
So he returns and reads till he is dead.