Shade siting , escaping scorching rays.
A book in hand, words reanimating  visuals.
The scent of pages drowned in tears,
They are different of course. Bitter is the scent of sorrow, few are the drenches of joy.
Past words coming to life, old life lived anew.
Lost words are found, though plain words are lost in interpretation.
This inked paper offers an escape.
Return I will, not now but the end.  
Let time tick till it sets,
While words tock to infinite.