I sit upon the story book.

(The walls they shudder, the house it shook.)

The pages are yellow, the cover is aged.

(The window’s emblazoned-the storm is enraged.)

The story is familiar, my memories wake.

(Outside my window, the heavens they break.)

Chivalry, romance, adventure, despair.

(The trees are entangled, the sun is ensnared.)

With my tiny finger, I trace the long spine.

(The rain is cascading from along the skyline.)

I force the stories, one by one, through my head,

(To rid myself of the noises, the screaming, the dead.)

I sit this way for a while, just rocking, just swaying;

The words alive in my head, illustrative, they’re playing

beautiful music, the words dance through my mind.

They remind me of home, of a happier time.

(And as the storm is outside blowing, I won’t have to look.)

I just listen to the stories

inside my storybook.