Slightly loved,
certainly not at the point
of no return quite yet.
Still readable.
Taken on boat rides,
subways, trains,
buses, airplanes.
Small cars,
big cars,
cars with no roof.
Held in the hands
of the young,
the adolescent,
the young adult,
the middle aged man,
the elderly woman,
by all those who crave
a different world
to delve deep within
as a passageway
to an alternate reality.
As a way to escape
the life currently being lived,
one mundane event after another.
Wishing for something else,
something not being satisfied
by repeating the same routine
each and every day,
by law.
By obligation.
By social blackmail.
A story that was written by
someone with the same problem;
desperately wanting to be somewhere else.
Wanting to tell a story that
has no boundaries.
No queues,
no social obscurities.
One that could be accepted
for what it truly is:
a story.
Held in the pages
of a worn paperback,
the story continues
long after it’s raconteur
has ran it’s
evanescent course of life.
