By what strange ways have I arrived
To touch a thing a younger self
Saw fit to pack with earnest care, 
A book not placed upon a shelf
Since such a darkened yesteryear.
A book not loved nor referenced, 
But left to molder in a box, 
It gives not scent of well thumbed page
But brings the mind to moldy socks. 
He now is me, I can't be he, 
By any effort still sincere.
But if he would not toss it then, 
I surely cannot toss it here.