The Unaging Words...

Into it I do frequently look,
Though I know the tale so well;
It's like an old psalm book,
A reminder of heaven and hell.

I know what's on each page,
Every line and all in between;
Like words that don't age,
I too hope to be as I've been.

I know the marginalia too,
Many squiggles in many hues;
Some so obvious, some new,
Some in dark and deep blues.

And what is not in print,
Was not written only by me;
Some blunt, some a hint,
And some I wish not to see.

The notes are in relief,
They vivify and also stupefy,
As each infernal motif,
Raises the holy heaven high.

As to preserve the book,
You have to let the notes be,
The shames in the nook,
Like laurels, also define me.