You stare me down. Glance at the title in my hand. Something sad, Perhaps, Or something true Or both. You say you do not understand Why would I choose to read? When you dislike it so. Let me ask you How would I answer? There’s nothing to say. No possible way That I could convince you— To dance— To dream— To fall Into pages cream To come through darkness Into light To let go of the breath you’ve been holding, To be lost, To be found (If it’s not a cliche.) I do not understand. I do not condone.
