Here is a book to be read,
The kind of book I’d take to bed,
And cuddle up with and ask of him
What makes him act: be it fact or whim?

One chapter for each new year.
Every nuance I’m dying to hear.
Detail of thoughts, of people admired,
Of things detested, of goals aspired.

He is this book upon which I am gazing.
A page for each moment; this book is amazing.
And I am the reader of this man.
I skim this journal as much as I can.

For in this book there is compassion.
He speaks with a fiery passion.
He knows your worries and tries to soothe,
And any stress he tries to remove.

For in this book there is great wit.
One that I envy I shall admit.
He makes you chuckle with his jokes,
And with each laugh, the more he emotes.

For in this book there is emotion,
When properly riled causes much commotion.
His heart he sometimes wears on his sleeve,
But he dawns his mask to make you disbelieve.

For in this book there is much thought.
Filled with ideas that can’t be bought.
Philosopher in his own way,
In pensive reflection he spends his day.

This text, this book, this man I’d bet,
Is the most intriguing I have met.
He writes himself with practiced skill.
The author of his very will.

This book opens my imagination,
And throws me into deliberation.
Shall I read until I fall within
The tangled web this is in him?

Or shall I cease, turn back to the cover,
Set this story aside, and look for another?
He may be greater than I bargained for,
And leave me pleading him for more.

But he is more than this book:
His cover, his face, his haunting look.
His words stick with me, resonating in my mind.
His mind a rarity; so hard to find.

I choose to explore him for myself,
To stay and read my gorgeous sage.
He has a glorious story in himself,
And I want to read his every page.

The End

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