BOOK

Book - tormentor of my dreams.

There stood my literary confidant

Beside the lamp placed by my bedside.

I crave the treasure island, the silent story.

That splendid, splendid scripting

To warn me about the library.

And so, I screamed, 'Is that a librarianship?'

The demon laughed, So,

I felt compelled to conceal my collections.

They are perfumed from unseen affections

And my eyes have all the neat printing

It feels unstinting.

But it is painful too when overlapped,

Living in those emotions and dying slowly.

I wish death shall bring fantasies.

And so, you came gently fluttering

Back into my memories while I sleep.

To quote Frank Zappa, “So many books, so little time!”