I feel like if I were to pick out life choices,
it would be me, as the little bookish girl.

Beside me stood a young oak.
Although I'm looking at him,
he swirled his branches
and his body cracked
to encourage me to enjoy the leaves falling
that would drop out —
on the midday of October.

I picked the book,
thoroughly flipping the pages
while I lick my lips
tuck my hair out,
peered on the white sandy sky.
Lit up the spark in my heaving chest
in beneath those pages.

I wonder, though,
is life all inside the book?
While I flip through the portal,
why do I keep on walking
the same road
if an anonymous poet
wrote in his book
that a man shall not follow
one's path?
But their beliefs and energy
that goes beyond
and falls in deep?

Then a dead crow suddenly
rocked its way through me
while its side bitten and decaying,
the distinction I have with its life,
brought me back to these pages —
and words scrambled
alive and beautiful.

I feel like if I were to pick out life choices,
it would be me, as the little bookish girl.

On midday of October, once, there was a girl. Her hair swayed and leaves rushed to get her attention, the little bookish girl was alive again for a while.