How I feel.

Dirty fingers flip my worn pages,

I tell a story.

My leather cover has weathered the ages,

while women, children and men,

have battered it.

They placed me in bags, my trusty cloak,

protecting me.

I live in my world, my mother but a mystery.

Thoughts made flesh,

It  doesn't really bother me.

All that I wish is to leave this dusty old shelf,

Before my letters fade,

and pages stick together with moldering age,

I want to truly live one more time,

I want to feel the adventure and thrill that is only mine.

I wish you would pick me, hold me in loving hands, and,

As I stretch my wings for one last time,

Cracking my back to ward off that endless sleep,

Carry you away to a realm of my own, where,

I can finally slip down into the deep.