The Book Resided

The book resided on the shelf.
No, not too strong a word,
For having first been opened to the light
Forty years internal night ensued.
Though once a finger touched its spine and paused.

The youth, enticed by title, size, its look,
Somewhat inclined to press its words on his mind,
To lean his mind on its words,
To intertwine,
Yet passed his finger down the row to an inferior kind,
Which teased his eyes, but raped his mind.

So close his finger to those truths.
So bound his finger to his mind.
So near he came to wed the two.
So distant now the truth declined.