My life is a book,

Sitting on the top shelf,

Dust gathering upon the wilting pages,

Words, yet unheard,

Lines written straight,

Each flowing to the next,

The next continuing the return,

The spine is rigid,

Stronger than others,

Others who are losing their stitching,

Old, with cords fraying,

Covers scuffed,

Pages warped,

Misplaced by their own words,

But I sit on my shelf,

For it is my place,

Left to capture time,

Bookmark in only the third chapter,

Pages not yet turned,

And yet here I sit,

I am my own genre,

I am my own story,