Novel & Cerita A Book Of Poetry

"Show me. Show me who you are when you're not being perfect. When you're not trying to prove anything. Just you." He's quiet for a long moment. Then he pulls away. Goes back to the chair. Picks up the book again. "Sit," he says. I sit. He opens the book. Finds a page. Starts reading. His voice changes. Softens. Like the words mean something. Like they're important. It's poetry. Old. Beautiful. About wolves and moonlight and bonds that transcend death. I close my eyes. Let his voice wash over me. Let myself just feel.

I can visualize the clock wheels turning in his head, trying to decide if I am capable of understanding the complex poem. I like a challenge! I sit, ignoring the warmth spreading through my body as I lie close to Bryce, opening the tome, and I gasp. The artwork on the page is beautiful and elegant. The lettering reminds me of "The Book of Kells," a real work of art. But I do not have the time to carefully examine the intricate patterns and designs created in different colored inks.

I make my way through the aisles, my fingers trailing along the spines of books, until I reach the poetry section. I don't know why I'm drawn here. I just am. My body moves like it knows something my brain doesn't. I walk through the poetry section, line by line, shelf by shelf, until I stop. My hand freezes mid-reach. 'Pablo Neruda.' A whole row of his work, lined up neatly, my fingers pause over one book in particular. 'Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.' I pull it off the shelf slowly, like it might bite me. The cover is worn, soft under my fingers, like someone's held this book a lot and loved it.

I close the door quietly. I spend an hour in the smaller library looking at the books. He has everything. Fiction. Nonfiction. Art books. History. A whole shelf of poetry that looks like it has never been touched. I pull out a volume of Mary Oliver and flip through it. Someone has dog-eared a page. I read the poem. "Wild Geese." I read it twice.

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.

She asked as she opened the book – not understanding a word it says. “Poetry,” He answered. Faith raised her eyebrow and flip through the pages to learn, that it indeed was written in a way poetry is often printed. Something about the font suggested to her that it was handwritten. She couldn’t tell properly, but it was – then whoever wrote it had such beautiful and curvaceous handwriting. It makes her want to read it.

Gladys says, smiling at me and the ladies scream in longing at what has been bestowed for me. “Lastly…” Gladys says, presenting a stack of book towards me. “This is a volume of the king’s favorite books, bound in the finest leather and edged in gold. These poems are shared with you as a token of his desire to connect through the words that move him." Once again, there is an audible sigh spread through the women. "To share his favorite verses," one woman mused aloud. “To connect with him on such an intimate level... What I would give to hold that book, to read the words that move him." Another adds.

Like a precious lost treasure, she held the book in her hands with the inscription "The Book of the Banshees" etched like gold on the cover. Evelyn's eyes were trained on the book, lost in the sight of it like an invisible specter tethering her thoughts and focus to one single point.

This book was more than just a mere collection of words on paper - it was a treasure trove of knowledge, a gateway to a world beyond our own. As I read on, the moon cast its pale light across the room, bathing everything in an eerie glow. I lost track of time, lost in the secrets that lay before me. Every line I read seemed to unlock a new mystery, a new revelation. The more I read, the more my curiosity grew, until I was completely consumed by the book's power.

That’s how he beats it. I pull out another book from a lower shelf. It's much smaller, old and worn-out. A collection of poetry, Neruda. I open it gently. The fragile pages are marked with tiny sticky notes, and several passages are heavily underlined. He has a heart, but he hides it.