The book falls with a thud
Whoever touched it?
Not the rose bud
Sitting on the shelf the book was once on
The dead rose petals shrivel upon
The steams so green, yet so dead
You’ll never know that it’s just in your head
The book’s indents glow a gleaming red
Just enough to sense the misread
Sentences inside, perhaps in Latin
The pages feel soft, just like satin
When you open it up, do be aware
You never know why it smells of pear
The book is full of stories
Live ones that tell the glories
Of the young & the old
Of the quiet & the bold
Of the common & untold
Of the worst & the gold
The book will tell you of the future & the past
These stories shall everlast
Until the day
The 5th of May
When all is said and done
May the readers, have some fun