The silent, lonely nights
Where I sat, a small child,
With nothing but a book as a friend.
My stuffed toys would smile
and watch me read
while I would think of a new story for them to tell.
Sometimes, my tiny laugh would pierce the air;
a small, simple sound
brought about by Silverstein or Rodda.
And then I’d read a story,
Dragons would fly
and fight the daring hero;
the scenes danced in my lonely mind like a fire.
My toys, my only friends,
would pretend to be those heroes or villains
to cure my stinging loneliness.
Soon, the toys got tired
and asked to retire to the shelf,
so I sat alone once more.
But, the stories remained strong as ever,
lonely and crying out,
just like me.
So I wrote the stories out;
their world became mine,
their characters became my friends.
They fought for me,
laughed with me,
cried with me.
I still remember the lonely nights,
with a book as my only friend,
but now they remember with me.