A lone bird readily stands but he will never fly unless he gives word to the man whose hand so often brings him into the sky.
Beneath the cover of a book, a man that looks may find others of his kind.
Through the crowd and out the door, he stands alone just as before.
Shadows draw long from the limbs of trees as the sun sinks softly down low.
He feels so strange as he peers down across the page that he has found.
A man with memories once stood to tell a story of treachery, having been through hell and back again, to his amaze.
Its leather bound by careful hands, its stories lost in shifting sands.
Spoken word, I never find quite as good as the kind of thought that lies in darkened ink atop a page that makes you think.
If ever you find some gem for low cost, perhaps, sit and wonder if the seller is lost.
These things we are told which lie in the mind we are not meant to hold as we each one day find.
When we do things with force they will never be true, they are denied a justice between me and you.
It was on this night a young man learned -- his ears alight, but not having heard and instead seen -- that these volumes of words could make a man dream -- and make a soul bright.