Once, at my
first
I had
straight edges
Clean pages
All was
perfectly aligned.
But through
the rain
My spine has
bent,
Pages
warped,
Whites
soiled,
Never to
return
Until,
recycled, you find
New words,
new hands.
Some say it
showed character,
But it reads like regret.
Next time I
will don a sleeve
Since you
never know
When the
rains will come,
Then suffer
the age of my fiber.
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