Fur to threads, to cloth, to blankets, what pleasant warmth Letters in tandem create words
Words strung together form sentences
And if you do it just right

Those sentences can be made into Stories, and glorious they can be

They throw you a line
With the most tantalizing bait
No great wonder its called a hook
Once drawn in, there simply is no avenue of escape 

Absolute obsession most certainly ensues

From there deep pewter pots

They brew up a concoction

It stirs and stirs and stirs

Stirs up every emotion you could have
Pulls a fiber from the very core of your being

Wrapping it tightly around
Their intricately cast spell

There is no such thing as unresponsive

When something is so beguiling

But, Is it cruel or sweet

To bind one thus

To ideas so beautiful

To worlds so relatable

To loves so strong
To triumphs so great

To ideas so unattainable 

To worlds so distant

Such unrealistic circumstances

Of those realities so far far away

One couldn’t have known

What they would be shown

But I suppose

The wilted rose

Though spiked and dried

I would have planted
Again, and again
To see its splendid bloom
Its blood red petals, smooth satin velvety

Though my heart it tore
When I reached the other end of the binding

When the words stole that which they gave me

When the string connecting us was so carelessly

Pulled and pushed and plucked and very nearly snapped
 

To feel the wonderful things I felt whilst within those words
Those magic weaving, spell casting, potion brewing words

Which bring you so high up

So very high up
 

That there isn’t magic keeping you

From tumbling down

          down

                     down

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