With wide eyes I look
Simply spotting a short book.
Ink appears on a page
And I begin to read
But as soon as I see the last word
The page turns.

I try to go back a page
To better absorb what I read
But the pages have glued together
Thus I cannot turn back a leaf.

I see yet more words
Magically embedding into the page.
Once again as I finish scanning
The page turns and adheres to the rest.

I feel as if a story must lie
Within those pages
Which disapper so quickly.

I dare not try to turn a page forward
As the present page lies blank.

Marks appear again.
The page turns at tempo.
This time I did not see
What lie on that page.

I feel this book as one
With the pages to the left already filled
Surely the ones to the right
Must lie blank.

But something in me implores that
I sketch on them
Almost as if
I doodled upon a sketchpad
As a painter might doodle
For some work yet to come.

I someone feel
This book as one.
But I could not tell you how
It all fits together.

The books seems to grow ever larger in size
At least on the bottom left binding
Why can't I see the right?

Even though I still see writing appear
The book seems short,
With more blank pages
Soon to get filled.

It's probably either pretty clear or rather obscure about what I've talked about above. Or something in between. Anyone want to guess or comment?