The Reader’s Folly

When I was young and even now,

I dove into books for solace, proud

To escape from this world of pain

And envelope myself in loving praise.

For is there anything sweeter

Than the joy of an avid reader?

The pages spun at the hands of genius

That tell the stories of far off places

Woven in time, they give but a glance

Of these worlds conceived by chance.

Here, do I ever sit and ever stare

Wondering and dreaming for my share.

Of love do they speak, romance, and despair,

Of creatures that exacerbate courage and flare

I long to be like them, to possess such strength,

Though in this world I can only stare.

Their words are carefully crafted,

Tailored to evoke one’s passion

They strewn the page in heaps of black,

Yet their stories are too bold to lack.

Tales of Gatsby, Darcy, and Pip

Of Emma, Cathy, and Heathcliff.

Heroes, damsels, and villains alike,

Hold a special place in my heart

One of reverence and spite.

And all I can do is stare,

Wondering if I’d belong there

In the minds of writers great and old,

Yet begging for my own story to be told.