My Friends

I have friends, 

Many friends,

But don't think

They're in the flesh 

And blood.

They're books

My companions,

My life mates,

My soul,

My all.

Made of pages

And letters,

Small and large,

With many tales

Of far off days,

And far off ages.

They've no bones,

But divine words.

No blood,

But experience

Of ultimate truth.

They have

Many phrases,

Many pictures, too,

In colors,

And in black and white,

That tells me

How to die,

And before that,

How to live,

With the head ever high.

Devoid of life, 

They appear,

But full of life,

Full of juice,

They are.

They often tell me

Something of truth,

The essence of life.