The wood pillars
rise up from the floor.
I can imagine them growing,
shattering the roof and
disappearing
into the clouds.
A shiny, cherry wood finish
intoxicates me
like the poisonous gleam of a red apple.
My fingerprints helplessly rest there,
no match against its pull.
Its shelves, like the golden steps
leading to Olympus,
beg me to climb them
and consume
every word in my path.
The aroma of adventure
breathes me in.
The fragrance of
gingerbread,
candy and
enchantment
lures my hunger to its house.
It is a sweet treat that
mockingly belly laughs at me
for thinking I can stop at just one.
Overpopulated planks threaten
to stampede at any moment.
Stout books bully the thin,
attempting to squeeze
them of their oxygen.
Red-stained and leather-bound books
bat their eyelashes at me
from the shelf.
But I see them all.
I want them all.
The bookshelf pulls me in
like a rabbit to a hole,
leading me into
my own wonderland. I
am its powerless victim.
It is my pleading yellow sun
and I am its willing Icarus.
It has created me from borrowed parts,
stitching me up,
breathing life into me and
sending me lumbering into the streets
to frighten children.
It is a sapphire-scaled dragon,
as tall as a castle keep,
its massive wing-shaped cloaks
swimming through the sky,
its fiery breath engulfing my self-control
in the feverous flames of imagination.  
It is the crimson stain that
refuses to release itself from my hand,
regardless of effort or parental pleas to
“go out and play”.
Sometimes I fly from the shelf on my broom,
passing over the rooftops of England,
the wind racing
against my face and
through my hair.  
I am above the world
and can see and feel
everything
clearly from here.  
A fortress protected from all else,
the bookcase is built by and for dreamers.  
Until the next time,
my conspirators on the shelf
patiently wait for me to
free them
of their dreams and
unleash
my new reality
for the time being.