The book is opened though the end grows nearer as we turn the pages,
The narrative comparatively clearer as we walk the ages,
Broken hearts and vows now bind the words in tortured tension,
Spoken parts now read blind, too unkind and hurt to mention, 
Bookmark the page, shelve the rage and save it for another play,
Let the players step down from the stage until another day, 
There is the story, laid upon your bed as whispered words of strangers, 
Built of tales of lust and love and lessons in their dangers,
And as your fingers walk the paper miles to feed your growing need,
Each digit gently lingers on the pages past and soft concedes,
That though to turn the page means to consign its words to history, 
To falter at each stage would mean the next remained a mystery, 
And so the page is turned in hope of answered dreams and measured glory, 
Leaving those behind who find they’ve lost their place within this story, 
And so it is like tall grass in the wind that to its will we bend,
Until the plot to us is known and set in stone, we reach, “The End.”