The books were made in a factory where ink

Was put on paper, in the shape of strange patterns

Called letters by somebody far away

Who wanted them to mean something.

They stuck them together and called them a book.

There are people some places who read them.


When he was in the classroom, he opened a book

But that wasn't enough, so he read another.

He read the books because he wasn't interested

In the world. It wasn't a cruel place,

But he thought that the books held a better world,

Even though they were just ink and paper.


The books were magic because he wanted

To read them. He imagined that the patterns

Built an entire new world, even though

He knew that sort of thing is silly

And can only happen in books. He put down his pen

Because he knew that magic doesn't come from pens.


When he grew up and had money, or paper with

Green ink on it, he gave it away so he could

Get many more books and even bigger books

That he put away on a wooden shelf. He believed

That books held new worlds, and that if he had

Many books, then he owned many worlds.

He didn't know that they all went away

When the books closed. Books were strange

Things that consumed his time and his mind,

But he still wonders what would happen if

Somebody stopped reading the pattern of ink

That traced the lines of his own world and life.