The words called me to come to them,
“Come!” they called me, “Come!”
The pages were softer than silk, but crisper than ice
And if I had asked someone, they could have given me advice
For I would read all through the day
The almost tangible tale trembled as I tried to tear myself away
The pages I had yet to read, an ocean
My bookmark, a boat
I kept finding the pages in motion
And me reading what the author wrote
I could see the words in the book, some faded
I could hear the rustling of the adventure-laced pages
I could feel the spine stretch as it released its tale
I could smell the smell of the book, but it was dwindling, so frail
I could taste the smell of the book, if just for a moment
And I knew right then, in my life
Books would never meet an opponent