A Book Of Poems Novels & Stories

Every moment is this. Without moment. This. The light that is. The love that is. The being that is. The this that is. Only this. The book never opened. Because there was no cover. The book never closed. Because there was no ending. The book was the opening. The book was the reading. The book was the read. All one. Without one. This. The final chapter is not final. There was no first. There was no sequence. Only this. Appearing as sequence.

It was open late, and the soft lighting inside looked like a scene from another world. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The scent of old pages and wood polish welcomed me like a friend. I didn’t even look at the titles at first I just wandered the aisles, brushing my fingers along the spines of hardcovers, letting the silence cradle me. I paused in the poetry section. There was something honest about poetry. No filler. No fluff. Just raw, unfiltered emotion. I picked up a slim volume by an author I didn’t recognize and flipped through the pages of the book. I wasn't going to read it. it had coffee brown pages and if I knew anything that book was going to get me wrecked and I wasn’t

A w‌ee‌k after the bookstore, a plain, unmarked package was deliv‌ered to Elara’s studio. There was no⁠ retu‍rn address⁠, no not‍e. W‌ar⁠y⁠, she opened it to find‌ not a weap⁠on or a threat, but a book. Th‍e‍ sam‍e lea‍ther-bo‍und collection of Mary Oliver poems they had both reached for.

⸻ Almost deliberately. ⸻ Then a single object emerged. ⸻ Not a weapon. ⸻ Not a creature. ⸻ Not a god. ⸻ A book. 📖 ⸻ A simple book. ⸻ Floating in the air. ⸻ Burned. ⸻ Damaged. ⸻ Ancient. ⸻ Its pages were torn. ⸻ Its cover almost destroyed. ⸻ Yet one title remained visible. ⸻

Miguel, on the other hand, looked for it on the Internet, in various online stores and auctions. Unfortunately, it turned out that this book had only a few copies and was therefore extremely difficult to find. Most shops either did not know about its existence or never had this book in their collections and only heard legends about it. It could mean two things - either this book simply did not exist, or it was so dangerous that only the initiated had it in their book collections. Maria rejected the first option because she trusted her dreams and gut feelings now even more than before. Therefore, Miguel believed that the second option must be true, and it gave him hope that if they could get

I pulled one out at random, a collection of poetry, and began to read. I sat on the couch, surrounded by the silence of the beach house, lost in the words of the poetry book. The verses spoke of love, loss, and longing. I felt a pang in my chest as I read, recognizing the emotions that had been swirling inside me. The poet's words were like a mirror, reflecting my own thoughts and feelings back at me.

I noticed he had categorised his books according to genres: Fiction Politics Classics Poetry History Romance Wow! I hadn't imagined him to have such a wide variety of books. It seemed like he was an avid reader. My fingers brushed against the leather-bound spines of the books. Most of them appeared to be limited editions from their paper and bindings. I passed through the poetry section. Selected Poems by John Keats Tennyson’s Poetry So many classic poetry books. I continued forward. Lord of the Rings War and Peace Frankenstein

He flipped open the book she had just read, which was no longer a boring and tasteless medical book, but a comic book written by Jimmy. Blake was naturally not interested in these childish things, but he continued to flip through them one by one, rubbing his fingers on the pages as if Avery's body temperature and smell were still there. When the book reached the last page, the title page was filled with a short poem: "We watch fish love birds, cats love mice, dinosaurs and frogs, princesses, and princesses, we see meteors fly past, we watch trees bloom, and I cannot wait for you to fall in love with my miracle!"

Nova's Pov I shut the door to my small room behind me, the click of the latch sounding louder than it should in the quiet. The space was tiny. Barely enough for a narrow bed, a chipped mirror, and a single window that overlooked the alley where moonlight sometimes slipped through the cracks in the buildings. But right now it felt like the only safe place left in the world. I sank onto the edge of the mattress, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around them. My chest ached like someone had reached in and squeezed.