I saw you on a high shelf covered in a thick layer of dust,
I was so lonely that it was in you I began to trust.
The beginning was enchanting -- you were the hero, the savior, the protagonist! -- Mostly... You were mine.
But I'm beginning to think you were mislabeled... Fairytales are not real; that's the bottom line.
I have read the fine print, it's all in black and white,
And understand that heroes cannot always do what's right.
Skimming every chapter,
Reading between your LInES,
Searching for answers,
As my fingers run down your spine.
You claim to be an open book,
But I've been reading you for ages,
I'm starting to wonder --
Are you missing a few pages?
I've read you so many times,
your cover's finally cracking,
You're definitely indefinite,
And the irony is baffling...
