Books

Its cover is leather armor,

Worn and cracked.
The breastplate stained

With the tears of readers.

Once worn and lost,

Never forgotten.

The spine is a bow,
Once bent and never shot.
The long-lost arrow shoots
Fear into the solemn hearts of readers.

The love and grace that bind the

Hidden land, shoot also.

The pages: fallen leaves from a
Long forgotten forest.
Each one crinkles with unknown age,

Bristles with forgotten majesty.

The edges sharp as thorns,

Stained with age.

The words are drops of rain
In the desert.
Feeding the barren mind,

Refreshing the senses.

Allowing the mixing of the paint

Of beautiful pictures.

The letters: tiny molecules,

Put together to create rain,

To create beauty.
New words,

New pictures,

Constantly forming.

Characters like friends:

Never gained,
Yet never lost.
Stories on an endless loop,

Ending only to

Start again afresh.

The language falls off the tongue,

A waterfall of immense beauty.

The sounds of exotic places
And unknown lands.

A world accessed through belief

And there to spend the rest of days.

The world: an endless wonder,
From first sight to last.
Each glimpse beautiful and wonderful,

Or beautiful and terrible.
To each place a name
Which tells its soul.

The story is a reason to believe

And to live.
For good stories are
Never lost.