Reading

The cobble stones beneath my feet,

Magick in the atmosphere

Horse carts rattle by

The demons not discreet

Over near the apothecary, one hears a ghost

From whence he came he disappears

Forever more engrossed.

Brittle pages break with time

The story never lost

One must only pick up,

From whence they left off.

Language can create anything

So wrap thee and peruse

For a book can take you anywhere

It is certain to enthuse.