They clutter the shelves, old best friends
Familiar, once my enamored, yet no more.
As I’d race through them, they all became simply wizened lore.
I found that as each story told itself until its ends,
I was fascinated. And each chapter laid to rest portends
A new rise. I’ve read them all and find myself longing for something new to adore
A fresh text, the likes of which I won’t abhor.
I thirst for that epitome of literature, the sort that transcends.
Yet for of all the quests I’ve read, I’m lost to find...but wait. What’s this?
An intact tome, unquestioning and prepared to captivate.
I would sit and unfold my latest obsession.
As I pour into the text, eccentric bliss.
First page, chart a course and begin to navigate,
For my devotion to words is the only thing lying beyond my comprehension.
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