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Picking up a book,
The frayed binding soft as leather.
The crumpled layers of uncrisped papers,
Layered like fur of a grizzly bear.
The printed, intricate words,
Creating caverns of dark ink pressed into the paper.
A maze to navigate.
Every maze leads to a forest, a beach, a home, a castle.
Every one holds back a monster trapped behind the bars of literature.
Turning a page opens shutters,,
And lets a fresh breeze through,
Whispering,
Leading you through the maze,
Guiding your turns.
Picking up a book,
Is holding the weight of a world in your hands.