My Book is My Light


My Book Is My Light

It’s a peculiar thing to feel
that the characters are almost real,
and the rustling of pages
are the passing of ages.

Stiff spine
and creamy white,
pen and ink
are times to think.

Printed letters all aligned
is comfort in darker times.
My mind reels unconsciously
as I’m shipwrecked by the sea.

I know it’s just a story,
but even those never seem to bore me.
The book is a map and I am a boat,
sometimes drowning to stay afloat.

I read into the night
my book is my light,
as I’m conflicted…
I think I’m addicted.

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