A library is probably one of the strangest places on earth. It is a place dedicated to a million lives and a thousand adventures, all found in packs of papers bound together by cardboard. While I was studying for my European History class in there one afternoon, I looked up to find a tiny creature (a freshman) slowly walking across the library shelves, inspecting the books as he ran his hands across the spine. I observed him for a while because what's more interesting — a freshmen or learning about the Thirty Years' War? Exactly. The following is a poem about how the simplest foundation of learning can be a joy in our lives.
Running his nimble fingertips
Across its' bands,
One catches his eye.
It has maroon-colored spine,
With a worn out gutter.
Its run-down gauze screams its age.
He stops and stares at it.
His fingers reach,
Tipping it over and into his hands,
Carefully opening the century-old book,
Its mustard pages cough out dust.
He takes a deep breath,
Inhaling the mildewy scent
As the words begin to fly off the page.
He smiles at the pages beneath him,
At the beauty the words emit.
Because that's the amazing thing about books.
They let him travel anywhere.
Without moving an inch.
They take him to his dreams,
To mountains and seas
He's only seen in pictures.
Seconds, minutes, hours
Pass by before he creaks the spine close.
And as he walks away from the maroon-colored spine,
He remembers it all.
He has lived a thousand lives
As his nimble fingers continue to run
Across the bands of the books.
Each book he has opened
Allowed him to live life anew.
That's the beauty of books.
Each page is journey,
Each word gives him something new.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any and all references to any living persons or other works are purely coincidental.