Within the pages of a book,
Where so many people do look,
There are tales of love and woe and glory,
Gypsies, war, and famine make for a wonderful story.
But these books do not fly at me from their shelf,
Within the pages of my books, that’s where I find myself.
Yes I am a writer, and write books I do,
Within their pages there is only a “me” and a “you”.
I write of heroes with tales of woe and such glory,
So much love do I find in the tales of my story.
The names, they flow so easily,
Into the characters ceaselessly
I feel the tug when the cover is open,
And then, there, a new god has spoken.
He’s spoken aloud of the world I create,
And for this world I do wait
Until I can return to it each night,
And find myself being lost as I write.
If it is the true me for which you look;
You’re likely to find it in a page of my book.