Bookstore
As I pass the Bookstore,
I can smell the parchment of opened books.
The colorful covers call me forth.
The stories continuously call my name.
The poetry asks me why I’m not there.
My poems chide me to hurry and sally forth.
Here my need to write attacks my soul.
As passion over whelms my heart,
I scurry home to do my part.
Maybe someday my dreams and talent,
Will tear down the barriers so I too, can display my art.
Written 5-03-2011
Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2011
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