To think the trees are all knowing
When the days roll by and soon turn into a forbidden song
Millions of multicolored angels dancing in the never ending music.
Many experience the release of their wings
But cannot comprehend the movement that is classic.
Seeming as the wishes of the guardians
Prayed upon the ground that held them on the Earth
And this graceful calling of an Anglican.
The thought of ending this miraculous dance,
And stopping on multicolored angel,
And to put a pressure on a wing without concern,
And thrust my hands and arms in the song
In front of a thousand other’s dancing grace,
In the angelic whispers of them all in their own special language.
And the wind will join in the enchanted fun
By whirling and carrying the dance and song
I have no doubt I would end by grasping none.

My pages are printed on with black ink.

I am stories of life, whether they are true or not.

The eyes of curious creatures explore my reaches.

Some are kind and take care of me,

Making sure I am on my shelf and comfortable.

While others are rough and injure my spine or dog-ear my pages.

I have done nothing to deserve this mistreatment.

I am one’s perfect story, and another’s worst.