There’s this book, a quarter filled

Lined with stories, some short, and some winding

Some with overlapping plots, no end in sight except till the book’s very last page

Some stories, hold little space, materializing in only certain chapters

A certain chapter filled with the scent of flowers and the sounds of happiness

A certain chapter dripping with fresh, red blood 

Some bookmarks and pages, dog eared and worn out from all the flipping

Some chapters, never revisited

Also some, with their pages torn out, never to be seen again.

In the index of this book, new information is always penned down meticulously, new concepts, names, places, feelings

All to make sure the reader understands perfectly what the book is about.

Begin. 

A new chapter now.

In my best writing, for hope.

 In bold, for joy. 

Illustrated in color, for beauty. 

In simple prose, for love.

Extending from all the previous stories, what a development. Perhaps the best yet, wouldn’t you say?