The Books

Picking up a book 

Rummaging its words in search of an answer,

Ends up in questions I never brook,

So often chapters mirror my life

Jigsaw pieces fill in some 

The rest scary squabbles within.

The preface intrigues,

A wormhole entry into the space of mind,

Would the author agree we think alike?

The acknowledgements script 

The environment which nurtured the coming together 

Of moments into words.

Often reading in between the lines,

Unravels my own shadows

And blinded in the manner it tells mine.

Sometimes I am adrift 

And I beg to disagree,

Soon the pages ahead bring a truce

I agree to disagree another universe 

The rules and dynamics, unlike mine.

The side plots run into cul de sac, 

Either lost or enlightened 

I dont waiver that detour.

The feel of its print and paper

Unique in their character, 

Speak as they resonate my mind,

It is thus that I don their being 

And walk the chapters of my life.

In every book, I find a part of my own.