The Book a poem by T21int, written for His love, pixiebb

This poem is about the cyber-world of chat, the impact it has on us, and the impact we have on it

My love has found a book
With pages she can turn to
To take her through the dark time
Not of her soul, but, rather, of the year

A time of days too short
Long nights remembering
And hours filled with questions
About the nature of one's self

She did not come to it directly
But from another, which
Though it did not hold her interest
At least did point the way

Its pages, at first
Were full of wonder
All the characters were new
So much there was to see and to explore

So many stories, so many lives
Each being lived out, it seems
Before the readers' eyes
In real time, as in cyber

Like so  many stories, though
This one has its ugliness and pain
Which finds its way onto the pages
There beside the laughter and the love

A casual reader might even miss
The deeper truths revealed between the lines
Not seen because the petty things
Get in the way, sometimes

But I know there is real truth
And beauty in this book of hers
For I too read there, and have found
Such happiness as few dare dream of, and fewer know

Perhaps, now, with the newness gone
The lustre a bit less bright
It does not satisfy as once it did
It even seems a chore at times to read

But this book holds a story ever changing
Its ending never written, always being writ
And she must know she's part of what is good there
And without her, it is much less worth the reading