I’d drown myself in fiction,
For the huddle of words enticed me,
The woven wreath of metaphors,
Often whisked me away from reality.
I’d seek a road through paragraphs,
I hitchhiked through the author’s plot,
Walking through the bridges of ballads,
I inked out all my memories.
Lost yet found amidst a jumble of 26 letters,
A cup of coffee, now a stereotype,
The stories in a book, my enamored love.