Lost among a forest of books,
I find myself dreaming,
Of things both real and imaginary.
Illuminated by fragments of myself,
Glass stars are hung with red string,
Entangled by the thread I cannot move,
Or else the stars shall fall and break.
All I can do is dream,
As I wander lost in a forest of books.
Alight in my hands,
Is a dying candle.
The flame flickers,
Every moment I try to speak.
The still shining glass stars,
Held by red string that entangles me,
Though I stay still,
The threads yet still quiver.
“How”, I can’t tell,
For I can’t see past the forest,
I cannot question why with this voice,
Nor can I move or else the stars may break.
So now I begin to dream of the “reason why”,
Of why does the thread now quiver?
I become lost in those thoughts,
In that other world.
Till the light of the dying candle wakes me,
Its flickering warmth keeping me from speaking.
For every word may put out the flame,
And leave me without warmth.
Lost among a forest of books,
I find myself dreaming,
Of things both real and imaginary.
Illuminated by fragments of myself,
Glass stars are hung with red string,
Entangled by the thread I cannot move,
Or else the stars shall fall and break.
So, all I can do is keep dreaming,
Wondering what makes the thread quiver,
To why I still hold this fading warmth.
Is this warmth the “past?”
The “me” of another time?
Or the memories I’m slowly forgetting?
I want to know,
I want to find the answers.
Yet I’m afraid,
Afraid of losing myself,
The countless glass stars.
Held by red string,
That may lead me to the answers,
But may send me adrift in darkness.
So, I remain lost among a forest of books,
Entangled by red string,
As I hold and watch the flickering lights,
Held by glass stars,
Till someday;
