Every person is a book.
Some are fiction,
There are poetry and proverb,
while some are made of myth and magic.
Some books are there;
Of deep philosophies
and stories of fallen heroes.
Of allegories of pain and ignorance.
Of the elegiac epic of betrayal and survival.
But, some are mysteries of blank spaces,
and some, wordless jumbled jigsaw pictures.
But, there are some books
with days and dates on left,
like the pages of a diary,
who finds the order in orderlessness;
the one who keeps everything in secret,
and to those, everyone opens their heart
in both the midday and midnight of life.
The one whose pages bring the sweet and bitter memories,
the one to whom people run first after shutting their room,
the one everyone trusts and confesses their knackered and elated time of day,
and the one that overviews the labyrinth of life.
Everyone is a book, and there is a book for everyone,
to read and to be read;
with the private palpitation of heart
as a diary of solace in chaos.
To ensconce and to be ensconced
there should be the diary version of people;
to say, books do provide.