I was straightening the bookstore the other day, before we opened...all alone
When it hit me how every person in this world is like a novel of their own.
An ongoing and unfinished novel that too our happiness or dismay
Is being written, edited and rewritten a little every day
Neath the binding of our skin, we, as author or playwright,
Transcribe our story every day in words of black and white.
It’s an epic novel where we learn from our mistakes and hope they aren’t repeated
And not until the day we die will our novel been completed.
As we age our spine may sag a bit, our cover may degrade
Our pages may discolor and our bindings may get frayed.
Yes the ravages of time on our book may take it’s toll
But a good book never loses it’s heart and will always have it’s soul.
Besides anyone who enjoys a book and calls themselves a book lover
Knows you cannot, you mustn’t ever, judge a book just by it’s cover.
Remember, yesterday’s words, once written, are permanent, no sense trying to fight it.
But we can alter the outcome of our story tomorrow when we write it.
For that is the beauty of our novels, each day the book expands
And no matter what happened the day before, the ending is in our hands.
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