Fairytales For Sale.

I was a book.

A pale book.

People used me for their great tyro.

Shared their stories, writing them on my plain sheets.
Scrabbled on me to make themselve lean.
Painted all their colourful dreams.

And when my aught came to the end of the sea.

They conceived me as a futile amiss.

Juged me with my scribbled leaves.

All the delivered goods.
All the prepossessing paintings,
All the writing happy endings.

Everything that made me look beautiful ,
was ignored.

I was a book with beautiful stories , striking paintings, but was abandoned just because of my scribbler state.

And,

I was no longer considered saturated.