Member-only story
A book is a bonfire night
The point of a book is not the story,
The tale it tells is incidental,
A book is a bonfire night,
Embers buried in dynamite,
Sentences that explode into flames
Of wonder,
Of whispers,
Of whimsy,
Making you long to
Remember them,
Retain them,
Repeat them,
They have a life of their own,
More than the story they form,
Leaving you with fingers outstretched
For a highlighter,
For a pen,
For something,
Even when you know it is forbidden
To leave your tracks in the forest,
Navigate only by
The coincidence of memory,
No photographs,
Words cannot be caged in a zoo,
They must be left in the wild
Without a tracker around their necks,
For future explorers to chance upon,
Reread,
Reconsider,
Rediscover,
Left free to pounce
Upon you another noisy night,
Seduce you with their sweet scent
Before baring their claws
And devouring you whole again.
