Every day I sit on my shelf, just waiting.
As the time passes, my stories grow faint,
My cover grows tired and stiff.

But my days have not always been this way.
For I have had many an audience,
Such Imagination they had!

My stories would dance in their minds!
One image for another,
So beautifully depicting, those words.

But alas they grow old and forget.
Much too grown up for fairytales they say,
Leaving behind them; a forgotten world.

But soon another will pick me up.
Gently brushing off my cover,
Through my pages they’ll flip.

Intrigued they’ll settle back,
To find what lay with in
And enchanted, they too will become.