In my hand I hold a book,
memories clashing, thrashing, collapsing at every verse.
To where I meet my fellow adventurer, traveler, merchant.
Oh are you friend or foe?
I ask at every letter, word, line, paragraph, page, chapter...
Scour every verse ever written, details of the past.
Yet they'll often end the same.

A frame to a world,
etched by fledglings of paper and ink.
Imperfections that shatter, clatter, splatter
every notice of human touch, hunch, crunch
But bunched together, sewn together
to reform and perform such a broken, silly tale.

Kindling hearths
as bluebirds fly.