A Poetry Book 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.

The title, engraved in handwritten letters like an intimate confession, was simple and revolutionary: “To Live.” Maeve held the copy between her hands, seated at the signing table in the bookstore she had chosen with deliberate care. Not the largest, not the most famous, but the one where, at seventeen, she had bought her first poetry book on a rainy afternoon, escaping home to avoid her mother’s acidic comments about her school essay. There was something circular about that choice — the girl who had sought refuge in other people’s words was now offering her own as shelter.

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.

It's hard to focus without her, but I lead Axar into the small library with me as I begin to search. Having been alive for so long I've acquired many books and ancient pieces of literature. Some are in immaculate shape, others are torn segments and several pages, barely tethered together by bits of spine. Many of these are family heirlooms as well, handwritten and handed down to future generations for guidance. Some are my own notes and contacts, roughly scribed here and there and then stuffed back onto shelves. I find several books on banshees and a couple on cambions. I find some on death as well, and I stack it into my arms with the rest the pile. "Take this one too." Axar softly suggest

Forever bound by Tuberose's art, In the Fragrance of Love, we'll never depart. As I finish reciting the poem, my heart is filled with a profound sense of connection and appreciation for the words that have touched my soul. At this moment, I realize the power of Tuberose's poetry to capture the essence of love and evoke emotions that transcend time and space. With the book held close to my heart, I continue to delve into its pages, immersing myself in the fragrant world of love that Tuberose has created.

I said, pointing to the nearby shelf. I walked ahead quickly, hoping she’d stop to process what I said — maybe stand there for a second, pretending to browse while secretly thinking about it. But no. She was still beside me, pushing the cart like nothing happened. Seriously, what build did God give you, huh? We reached the poetry section. Sydney’s eyes softened the moment she saw the shelves. She reached for a book titled The Gift of Everything and placed it in the cart like she was laying a newborn down to sleep. I couldn’t help smiling.

She shivered at those thoughts. No, she wanted to handle this on her own. She sat back and drove to work. ... Carina glanced around at BookCrazy with satisfaction. Poetry nights drew large crowds, and they were all book buyers. Every Friday night, she often folds the bookstore into a small hall. Quietly, the soundtrack is melodious through the dimly lit passageways. Apple-green chairs were crammed together, and distorted coffee tables had been pulled from the warehouse and arranged in an informal circle. The crowd was an interesting mix of intellectuals, some quite serious and others just wanting a night of entertainment. She pulled the mic up onto a small platform, and checked her watch aga

Turning the music off, I grab the lavender and put it in a tiny glass vase, and set it in the center of the long ebony black dining table. Walking out of the conjoined dining room and kitchen I grab my book, my water bottle, and a blanket. I set the water and blanket by the back door that leads to the porch, and the beach a little off, and head back to the kitchen with my book. Of human bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham. The book itself isn't bad, but from my point of view, it's terribly bland. I like more poetic works. But also a hint of darkness. The best example is the poem, In the Desert, by Stephen Crane, from his book The Black Riders and Other Lines. It has a sense of dystopia that I ca

But she… didn’t flinch. Lena walked over to a little table display and picked up a thin, cloth-bound book. She walked over to him, holding it out like an offering. *The Quiet Between Lightning Strikes.* A poetry book. The cover was old and nubbly, the title scribbled in fine silver ink. Julian stared at it like it was an alien thing. "What's this?" "A book," she said, smiling. "I told you. I don't—"

I say and go up to my room. I drop into my blue bean bag in front of the fish tank. I take the Poems, book out of my jacket pocket and hold it up. Easter Holidays is the first poem in this book. It's followed by Dura Navis and I don't know what to do with this other than to summarize what I thought these poems meant in tenth grade. I've never gotten gifts for my birthday. It never felt like a celebration for us. "Have you seen my other boot?" Miles asks. I turn back to see Micca toss it to him from the bed. "Sweet,"