In a world lined by lies, we look not to
hallow men but to; Crinkled white pages.

Engulfed by the smell of home and fluoresce.
Our heads swim with what can, could, and will be.
Those imaginary heroes become.

Us and we fight monsters made of concrete
text. And it ends every time we close the book.
But our hearts continue to beat with miscue

prose, to the tune of pink love-struck blushes.
Those fairy tales and happy endings bless
gifts to those scared of their reality.

When our hands touch paper spines we blossom
Our minds unfold and become meadowsweet;
Flowers of yellow and green on a brook.

Through little black lines we see life and death,
tame worlds of dragons with words with whispered words,
and grow beyond the boundaries of literature

inspiring us to wear our own armor.
The truth to the lie of fiction allows
it to become far more truer than truth.