I’m reaching out, engaging and scrutinizing;
skimming through to see you.
Holding you intently, purposefully and committed.
You seemed an open book.
The audio version of your story mesmerizing, your truth so bold.
Then I went beyond your notes and found blank pages.
They told a different story.
You ring hollow.
There’s nothing there.
I have to put this book down.
The efforts made to unravel the mystery, and
the chances taken diving right in brought me no pleasure.
I learned nothing.
Maybe another blank page can read you properly.
I won’t waste my time on an empty binding.
When I’m ready to read again, I’m sure
I’ll find a better book to discover.