Inanimate object

Long ago was a time when eyes puzzled our silently simple morals and mantras. When you held us, it was a time of solace: for you, for your exasperated mother. We made stories come and delight greener minds which needed a bit of guidance here and there. Once you haphazardly threw our pages aside, we could only hope our words inscribed in your morals and shaped the way you shared, and played, and talked. Some of us were not so successful. We were read once, only to be touched once more by the clueless aunt who asked for nobody's opinion on which book to read to her niece. But there are some whose corners are weathered by nothing but the soft touch of fingers and words which are already memorized by you, but what's words without a book really? And these books are loved like a friend, someone you could not live without their guidance and stories. But even the closest friends are sometimes outgrown. And as I lay in this brown box instead of on a white shelf, spending my last minutes in a room where I have touched your heart more times than your calloused mind and fingers can remember, I can lay comfortablly knowing I am timeless, and never forgotten, because fantasy and whimsy and simple morals are always relevant.