Ode to trust.

Ode to thee,  embracing youth which  lays upon one's skin, and settled soft without a dabble in the old, but newly sin.
        Ode to the eternal youth, that seems to justify one's looks, and creases not nor wrinkles in place, of any printed books,
      Ode to time in passing,  frozen limbs and careful nooks to cove, the weaver of the imprints of heart, and it's fair books of trove,
     Ode to be that fountain of youth,  that everlasting breath of life conceive,  and neither death nor ignorance, could page the likes to breathe, 
     Ode to that engagement that beauty sorted as pages turn, for any crease may there pertice and in one's heart still yearn, 
      Ode to thee, the everlasting,  as age may bind and comprise of dust, a book that lays within a heart, that readeth them in trust.
      Ode to trust, and there compose a reminance of a life before,  a book that binds not only youth, but tenders deaths fair door.
    Ode to pages there all bent,  and eyes that loved which it  had heard , for precious are those whom kept it, not just life but as a word.