I remember,
Running my fingers down the rounded frail page edges.
Searing with pain yet,
Somehow red wasn’t found seeped in the book.
The must of it,
Smelled of grandmothers, dust and home.
How do words,
Twisted into fairy tales take you home?
It really is amazing,
The imaginary feeling just as real as real life.

I don’t read,
Much any more than poetry on my screen.
Or if I do,
It’s chapter long textbooks filled with mind numbing facts.
Sometimes,
I crack open my brain and a book.
Just to feel,
As though I am at home and free.