Of the Lonely Book

I started as nothing, then became something,
There was no past I am, nor history I was,
When I am open, that is when one shall read,
I fulfil no purpose, no joy, no reward,
I provide only instruments: my word,
Except as much as the pen permits,
Except as much as interest and eyes permit,
'Tis naught to begin and then naught to end.
When I finally close, the lights are off,
And when morn awakes, I become part of the whole,
For years I'm left, not knowing yond my words,
I remember only my date of publish,
I remember only the pages made me whole,
It was neither the word, nor the ink aside.
So when I am opened again, it was her grandchild.