A book, veiled behind layers of Words,
Lies open, right infront of me,
For a while now, trying hard to comprehend,
I stand here, Now aware of what was to be,
All that's written, All that was meant,
I see names bigger than mine,
Fighting hard to assert their mastery,
over it, that which changes lines with time,
A book, as amazing as the anonymous author,
Skillful at deceiving the reader,
For the fear of getting deciphered,
And getting dragged into the routine radar,
I see faces brighter than me,
Scratching their heads, rubbing their palms,
Coaxing the book to give in,
To expose it's original self, by virtue of charm,
The same trick as used by the book,
Not sure, if it might get tempted to reveal it all bare,
I stand here, with a black smile ,
On these still pink lips, now aware,
Of all that the book is about,
Though still unsure, if it would act agile,
And give in to the charms I've talked about,
But I stand here, with the same black smile,
As if telling the book, that now,
My dear friend, You stand deciphered,
word by word, bit by bit,
And don't you worry, you don't belong to the cupboard,
Whatever else you've got, go ahead and show,
But whatever you feel, & however hard they try,
Oh dear, I think you, by now know,
Who was the one who saw it all through,
Who was the one chosen to read you!
