A Book...

There is a book that I hold inside,
That sits on a shelf, just beneath my mind.
And the pages have been torn from this book,
And as they fly by, I manage to take a look
At every detail each page holds,
Just to know these stories have already been told.
Yet these pages have never met a bind,
Only the coils I had created when I was blind;
To an extent where I physically open my eyes
And there seems to be nothing there to see
Except the peaceful emptiness that lies
Beyond my unseeing eyes where I roam free.
The emptiness that is written clearly on the pages,
Which defies natural order of books, and all its stages.
Yet I see the words on the pages so clearly written
And their coils gripped and so firmly bitten.
The solidity of these words on paper as if written on a wall,
Yet so clear it seems there was never a page to begin with at all...
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I havn't made a poem in while, so yeah. Hope you enjoyed and uncovered the secret metaphor that is the focus of this poem. The obvious metaphor is a book... but there is also... something else. Btw, it purposely doesn't flow for a reason... Muhaha