Books

All around me,
On pages bound,
Sings a song,
Of passions and mysteries.

These words,
All strung together,
Like melodies of old,
Call to my writer's soul.

Pictures and phrases,
Of murders and love,
Old writers and new,
All share the same goal.

Through the tunnels of time,
Through the passages of history,
Over the broken bridges of feuds,
And lost within the forests of greed.

These words call to me,
Beckon my curious mind.

They wish for me to read,

And write my thoughts.

Through thick and thin,
Through loves and losses,
Through the constant sorrows and joys,
I know I'll always have a friend.

What are these called?
These wonderful items?
Those that I hold dear to me?
Why, they're called books!

Reviews

[Desert Dreamer]

I am also a lover of books, and find inspiration when reading.

[Amaunet]

bravo nicely written. i love how you moved the allignment back and forth was interesting.

I also agree with how you feel towards books, for a long time they were my only friends i think,

[Rae]

I just love the format of this poem. And reading a poem on books is awesome, because I love books. Good job!

[The Water Queen]

The passion for books. They can be a dear friend when needed and are always there. Great poem