I don't have a title. Any HELPFUL criticisms would be..well..helpful. I edited a few lines. Decided it actually did sound better without some of the lines.

I consist of pages both yellow and musty,

I am easy to read yet hard to decipher,

Cheap to buy yet left on the shelf dusty.

My spine is dry and decaying,

My cover is battered and torn,

Unfit for displaying.

My pages reveal everything

About nothing

And-

I know, I know

The other book is divine.

Newly minted with glossy white pages.

The Time's bestseller

And I am left, worn out in all stages.

Reduced to but one page,

The rest ride the breeze with sails in tatters

Or lay in piles of ashes scattered.

The results of the encroaching deterioration

That seeps into my matter,

Viscous and grey.

The one page crumbles away.

Now I am the empty book,

Not yours and never mine.

The glue, long dried, crumbles

And relinquishes its hold on my spine.

Now in quiet defeat I am lost

Amongst my dear wooden friends who

Clothe oppress and inflame me.

Now in the fire I see

With absolute clarity

That all is sublime in my reality.