The Hunger Games
By Abby S
In the inky pages
In the small twisting lines
Is a story
A story of murders and mutts,
Poisonous berries and spilled blood,
Of bows and arrows,
Of spears and swords,
Of districts and capitols
When I open the book
The calming smell of paper
The texture,
Not hard nor soft,
Not smooth nor rough,
Not sleek nor sharp,
When I run my hands through the pages
They rustle like autumn leaves
Four hundred and fifty- four pages of blood
Of life
Of breath
Of life
Of death