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