I love them,
Bound parcels of paper,
Each covered in ink,
Creating worlds for me to get lost in.
How do you do,
my new friend?
I took my hard earned coin
And exchanged it for the chance to experience the world of your pages.
You were a gift,
Discovered by a loved one,
Who knew at once,
I was in need of the adventures within.
I see your face and am taken back.
Back to the first time.
The first time I saw you.
The first time we spoke.
The first time you and your fantasy,
They drew me in and flipped me.
My organs no longer remembering the order
In which they were meant to be arranged.
E.A. Thomas
October 9, 2020
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Happens
PoetryNot everything is poetic. Some things are accidentally poetic. Words drip from our fingertips like blood from a wound. Am I really to blame if those words end up in a book?
