The Vines

A small room stood, books adorning its shelves, 

The dim light of a fire lit its walls,

Illuminating the world in its gracious presence, 

Revealing the shriveled tendrils, cut to their size,

Brave Vines that had longed to seize their rightful prize,

Vines who slowly had seen the world their own, 

Crawled between the pages of books, taking their hold,

Creating tunnels through stories and leaving them bare, 

They knew every story, only the fire free from their snare,

Vines curled through wood, destroying and creating from its ashes, 

Green rope strung so precisely to hold the shelves proud,

Holding them to be proud on the weight of a million words

A million words to describe an impossible infinity,

One of unending stories, some clear, some hiding 

There very spirits, waiting to be learned and known,

Years passed, and the Vines continued to grow,

Defeating the flames, creating green fire of their own,

The Vines claimed the room, made it their world,

They took the books, leaves folding to words,

Once a room of wood, stone, and paper, now reborn,

The Vines built anew, more than the pages dreams,

More than the room