In an ancient house,
In a long forgotten room,
A beam of sunlight falls through the window
And warms a small, long empty seat.
The room is full of shelves-
Shelves not empty, merely abandoned
In the pursuit of less lengthy pursuits-
Those for cheap entertainment.

Doyle, Dickens, Defoe,
Shakespeare, Stevenson, Scott,
Twain, Thoreau, Tolkien-
All familiar friends,
All come to this room to wait.
To wait for the curious child to come along,
To crack open their dusty spines and
Flip through their musty pages.

I am that child.
The curious child that sits
On that sun-warmed seat,
In that long forgotten room,
In that ancient house.
I am that child
Who cracks open their dusty spines and
Flips through their musty pages.

I am that child
Who is familiar friends
With all of the aforementioned,
And who has adventured with them
To foggy London,
Where monsters and murderers roam,
To far off isles,
Accessible only by river raft, or pirate ship.

I am that child-
That sole child that still understands
The wonder and beauty of words on a page.
Words long forgotten by the ignorant and indifferent,
Those more willing to be entertained
By fallacy and farce,
Than by the familiar friends
In a long forgotten room.