By Ghermaine Marie M. Micaroz
I was once given a book clothed with ragged covers—
The thick pile of dirty pages almost unattached to its spine.
Some of its parts were brutally torn by its past handlers,
But the beauty of its words still left me sublimed.
It was not well kept, nor was it appreciated by others,
For they told me it was ugly and nasty—lacking beauty and color.
I didn’t listen and continued to read;
My soul be lost and the metaphors were my lead.
I savored every sentence—everything just hooks,
And I started to know who I was as I started to know the book.
It was surreal and I kept it forever and beyond,
For the book was you—it’s now an eternal bond.