In the quiet corner of my room, it stands,
An object of memories, crafted by hands.
A weathered book, with pages turned by time,
Its spine tells tales, both ordinary and sublime.
Leather-bound whispers of a distant age,
A vessel of wisdom, a literary sage.
In the fragrance of pages, stories reside,
A journey through time, with each word as a guide.
Ink-stained dreams penned with a quill,
A chronicle of emotions, both fervent and still.
Characters dance in the theater of thought,
In the silent conversations that books have brought.
A bookmark, a relic of places I've been,
Within these pages, adventures begin.
Dog-eared corners, like milestones in the mind,
An object of nostalgia, a treasure to find.
On shelves lined with worlds, diverse and vast,
The book, an object, transcending the past.
In its quiet presence, a refuge unfolds,
A sanctuary of stories, a tapestry it holds.
From dusty libraries to bedside stands,
The book, an object, that endlessly expands.
In every chapter, a new tale to chart,
An object of wonder, a work of art.
About the Creator
BrendonJoseph
Just someone who enjoys the artistry of life and literacy. Aimed to capturing the small intricacies often missed.
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The Spring
The sun was high when Lance pulled off the road and into the dusty lot of the service station. The sign back at the hairpin--the first sign in a long time--said they just rolled into Hatter’s Creek, Population 63. It was small enough it didn’t appear on the handmap in Shelby’s lap, yet here it stood, the first backwater township on the fringes of the National Park. The plan was to gas up, restock the snack bag, and press on into the wilderness.
By Zack Graham4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
It's my escape from reality. Loved your poem!