(On the shelves of the library
Calling from many years ago
Accompanied only by a reading lamp
The rustling of the pages
And the girl dominating my mind...
...Sylvia Plath)

Reading stories from respectable authors
Words as a magical enchantment
The writer-folk is calling me

Eliot, Conrad, Hemingway and Faulkner
Doolittle, Dickens, Burroughs and Virginia Woolf
Open the books and let me indulge in these fantastic works

The words in my hands
That only she understands
The girl whose life was sadly ceased
Sylvia Plath
It's the memory of these words
That to a lonely heart most hurts
A story that could never last
Sylvia Plath

Fitzgerald took me to a ride in a Rolls Royce
Introduced me to his old friend Gatsby
Forced me to turn his pages all for him

On the shelves I met the best of previous centuries
Kafka, Lovecraft, Borges and Roald Dahl
Pushkin, Gogol, Poe and the Brothers Grimm
Their works are forever young

The words in my hands
That only she understands
The girl whose life was sadly ceased
Sylvia Plath
It's the memory of these words
That a lonely heart most hurts
A story that could never last
Sylvia Plath

(. . .)

And as I turn the last page
And the chronicle comes to end
Characters leave the stage
But in my mind I've gained a friend
In these hardbound dreams
The words are illustrious beams
In these hardbound dreams
The words are conscious streams

(. . .)