Watching the picture of a window
in the book that was named Lost,
thinking about the strange title took
over the thoughts of the window.
With only imaginations about the cover,
I started to read the book, opening
with the narrator travelling to places
that were named to just pass away.
Though many lines were spent to show,
his travels and names, they failed to glow;
his frustration lingered, lost in prose,
as early pages failed to impose.
With no hope, I turned towards
the second page of the top-seller;
it narrated the first page as
the writer's loss of hope.
Shattering the belief in books
judged by their impressive covers,
it made me advance to
the third page, which was quite strange.
It started with his revisit slow,
to every place he once did know.
With hope all gone, and heart laid bare,
he found new life was blooming there.
The pages turned, a window wide,
revealing hope, though costs implied.
I was fascinated to find, at the end —
it was me, not the hope, that was lost.