Shelves of Ratty Books

Shelves of Ratty Books

I dream of shelves of ratty books, their covers tattered, torn and worn; a multitude of waiting pages, innumerable for each child born. Inside each tattered, torn, old cover, enchantment waits each passerby who'd dare to open up the cover and read each word with eager eye.

I dream of shelves of ratty books, for every child to hold so dear; ratty books with tattered parchment, cherished by children who'd pass through there. A story house filled with ratty books, their dog-eared covers apparently tired; for this would mean they'd served a purpose, adventure found and knowledge acquired.

No dust would claim these ratty books; their fate would be to tatter more. Little hands holding dust-less covers, scattered about on a book-filled floor, engrossed in tales of far off places soon to live within their minds; hanging on each thought ere written, sequential words, so eager to find.

Then, when the books had served full purpose, the pages too frail to turn again, the shelves would grow another story, page after page from beginning to end. A story house full of endless pleasures to touch the heart and inspire the mind, a learning place for bright, young children, knowledge to seek and answers to find.

A peaceful hush would silence this building, as little minds set all aflame