Poem: Book of Arts

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I am the book of arts;

Full of fables and facts.


My life is its review;

Long enough to caress infinity.


My mind, the pages;

Loaded with love and hate themes.


Separated into well-thought-out parts;

Poems, songs and paintings.


My body, a thin brown cover,

But sturdy enough to abide readers' punches.

 

My blood, the emotions,

That hook pals and strangers.


I am the book of arts,

people read but never finish.


©Tompoet

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