A BOY WHO READ BOOKS
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.