Normally your stories go marching through your head.
Beware, one day they may go marching off your bed.
Books hold tales that astound,
Full to the brim.
They may wish to be unbound
And go live some of them.
They have stiff spines and inky minds
That roam beyond the real.
Let them find a plot that winds
With no ending to fulfill.
Let them go so they may know
More than what they tell.
The only way they’ll grow
Is if allowed to rebel.
They open themselves up for you.
One day they should for themselves too.
Illustration by Uwannaringthebell.