The Book’s Solace

Ancient page beneath young fingers,

Knowledge timeless in itself,

Each new novel a world uncharted,

Simply waiting upon a shelf for the next explorer,

Worlds unreal, old and new, each biding their time.

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As hands reach for the next experience, the mind waits

Breath baited.

The cover opens, the contents are skipped, the acknowledgements receive their glance,

At last the mind untethers from this material world to places a mere thought away,

Yet unreachable by everything except the mind.

To be an author, how glorious to thin a thought and put it to the page knowing it will last for evermore.

Dead writer’s words haunting in their wisdom at times.

The book closes, time has passed. It matters not.

Life moves on, more books are read, each an escape from cruel reality but never lasting.

The book gathers dust upon its wooden shelf, read no more.

It’s owner glances at it fondly but know what lies within, there is no escape to be found within its faded pages.

The owner is gone. The book still waits, people pass it by.

One day, the book knows, someone will see its battered spine and reach.

The mind’s cycle begins again.