Jun 2014
I hold them
In my hands
Only to treasure them
Always.
They are but
The life of me.
They are but
The life of me.
Nothing more,
Nothing less.
I open them
Only to see
Words of
Beauty.
I sniff them
Only to detect
The fragrance
Only they
Behold.
They are but
The life of me.
They are but
The life of me.
Nothing more,
Nothing less.
Yet,
What I charish
Most of all.
The radiant energy
Of what lies
Within.
The thrilling sensation
Of what lies
Within.
They are but
The life of me.
They are but
The life of me.
Nothing more,
Nothing less.
In my hands
Only to treasure them
Always.
They are but
The life of me.
They are but
The life of me.
Nothing more,
Nothing less.
I open them
Only to see
Words of
Beauty.
I sniff them
Only to detect
The fragrance
Only they
Behold.
They are but
The life of me.
They are but
The life of me.
Nothing more,
Nothing less.
Yet,
What I charish
Most of all.
The radiant energy
Of what lies
Within.
The thrilling sensation
Of what lies
Within.
They are but
The life of me.
They are but
The life of me.
Nothing more,
Nothing less.
This poem is dedicated to every author who filled my body with the joyful, thrilling, and powerful feeling I had when I was reading. And to every author who made me cry (long list). To all of them who created those amazing books.
(In the best of books)
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