Just Books

LIFE is just another story,

Put to words on just another page

Of just another book

In just another Library,

Waiting,

 In no particular fashion,

Willingly nor resentfully,

Patiently, with the musk of the old

Nor impatiently with the freshness of the new,

Just waiting,

To be seized and explored

By yet another eager pagemaster

Keen to stray into a thrilling adventure,

Or perhaps simply hoping to escape the last.

Where he comes from is not told,

Where he is going is not known,

But he is here now,

Among these musty old shelves,

Brushing away the dust of his next journey,

Delving into the realms of anything is possible,

Greeted by a blue toaster

Or a march hare,

Or a super whale and a man called Ishmael,

No telling what the new journey brings,

No telling where it may leave off,

No matter.

The ride is all the fun.

So what if we are all just stories

With little purpose or meaning.

So what if our lives are just dusty old books

Inside which, few stop to peek.

So what if the library of the universe smells of musk

And gives an air of being shut up for 50 years.

I happen to like the smell of an old bookshop...

As long as there are always worlds to peek into

And ESCAPE.