Somewhere,
If not in Stardust,
In half-burnt charcoal.
If not in the golden pages
On the rough surface of
Lichen-laden rock.
Preserved in a
Century-old book,
If not in ancient exegesis.
Hints of old-style dried
Roses between the pages,
Waiting for some kid to
Accidentally read it.
He mumbles and laughs,
And screams in joy while
Grasping words-
It’s fun to turn pages
And gleam with wonder
Without even
Understanding anything.
We are that story.
Not words.
We are the wonders
Between the pages.