Never one for mere books on shelves,
I\'ve always been one who delves,
ever deeper here inside,
where poetry and secrets hide.
Weaving words meant to last,
I braid present, future, and past
in a mélange meant to endure,
capturing echoes forever pure.
So that I may bleed upon the page,
leave my mark for some distant age,
when all these lines I now savor
might someday return back to favor.
Sealing fine lines within a book,
preserved for that one closer look,
bound within this poetic mosaic,
safe from the mundane, the prosaic.
Now, each stanza a tethered thread,
a bridge between the unborn and the dead,
for every verse that I now dare write
keeps my ink alive through the night.