“A book a day saves one from the enemy.”
I often told myself this.
As I leaned my ear to the pages of a leather-bound world.
The world spoke to me.
It’s inky words, etched into parchment, jumped at me,
Asking me to see into their lands.
See how they formed and died.
You may ask,
“Conqueror! How can this be so?”
Well, I will tell you.
Before, in my youth, my demon
This Wrath,
Often spoke in tongues.
Words that confused me, yet spoke to me.
I found them either soothing or scorching to my soul.
And it left me in tears.
“Learn thy enemy.”
The words of my father often told me.
Then in my darkness, I used them as strength.
Wrath chose to incline its breath upon my ears.
So to keep it at bay,
Make another’s words stronger than its own.
From there, I sought the word of stories.
Adventures.
Fantasies.
Myths.
Beautiful as they were enchanting,
Became my saving grace.
As the words of books surrounded me,
Did the demon find trouble.
Wrath chose to sing loud.
But the books, as I taught myself to bend to their will, would speak even louder.
Damsels,
Cloaked villains,
Heroes with swords!
They all sought me.
And became my friends.
And Wrath?
Became a whisper.
So small,
So far into my mind, I could no longer hear it.
But when the book was placed down, it ****** me with a single word.
"Please."