With my words I weave a scene,
A flawless world that seems pristine.
Verdant trees and babbling brooks,
Lands from ancient story books.
It is in these worlds that I long to be,
Basking in blissful serenity.
Walls of paper blockade my way,
The ink-stained partitions seem to stay.
I wield my pen, my trusty blade,
As I carve a legacy page by page.
These places that I often scribe,
Evade me quite; I cannot lie.
Yet perhaps for a moment I may just pretend,
And weave my scenes until the end.