They call to me one by one – “Pick me, pick me!”
There are so many books to read and so little time
To enjoy them.
I am like a starving fish and they are the bait.
Once they take hold, fight though I may, they have their
hook in me
Until the deed is done.
I have always been a reality man, so when fiction waves the
lure in my direction,
Rarely do I bite. How do I know what is real in the world of
fiction?
Yet lately I am allowing it to take root,
To explore those vast universes poured forth from the mind
and creativity
Of the lonely author.
When I doubt the creation, I mortally wound their sincerity
and
Disregard their gift to the world.
So down the rabbit hole I go and as I careen through the
narrow passages
On my way to the gripping finale, the sadness begins to set
in.
The last few pages are like the downward slope of a
rollercoaster, but more like a water slide
Where I will drown in its torrential conclusion,
Hopefully resolved but nonetheless concluded
No matter how I may wish it not to be so.
When the relationship is over, I want to bask in it,
Take in the moment and allow myself and the written word
To hum like two exhausted lovers in the silence.
Now the book has served its purpose; it was meant to be read
and not shelved
To rot and clutter on my bookshelves.
Lately I try to rest for a while and soak in the meaning of
the written word
That has run its course in my spirit; to do otherwise feels
like a betrayal.
My hunger always returns, and I must feed it to sustain my
life.
The only way to satiate this hunger is to choose another
book and gird myself up –
For a new journey awaits.
