There is a Space Between Pages, That We've All Thought About.

Where do stories go when the pages close?

Do they go to some place where I cannot,

living by rules that keep me on my toes,

dying by riddles who’s answers I botch.

Are there dragons and Knights, detectives and sleuths,

innocent prisoners and deadly heroes,

real people maybe, like John Wayne, Babe Ruth,

or mad scientists obsessed with Neuro-

sis. Does life just stop for them, abandoned like

wet rainy dogs by the side of the road.

Do the pages just touch, wrapped up tight by

old dust? Have they no life when left untold?

         Then why do they live, still yet in my mind,

         taking up space, and alive the whole time?