Ode to a book

You hold only everyone’s stories.
The inked lines on your body tell a story.
One of sorrow and joy.
That makes you soar, that makes you cry.
The slim cloth of red, coated with the dust of centuries and fingers of many.
Your cover,
Stained with the fingerprints of many. For sometimes, once is just not enough.
You are one –
But you tell stories of a million.
Those of sorrow and joy.
Those that make you soar, that make you cry.
Your pages hold the key.
The key, to places a man could only dream of.
Holding you – I’m holding the world.
I’m connected to each part.
Pages of smudged ink with her perish.
And crumpled lines, when his world was stolen away.
Yellowed tales of past.
And crisp white for beyond.
In that sharded black ink,
May it be the King or the Piper,
For you don’t exclude.
Only everyone’s stories you hold.