A Book's Purpose


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I stuck my nose inside a book
And got poked in the eye.
I cried out, “Hey, what was that for?”
It muttered, “You know why.”

I carefully stepped right back in
And planted both my feet
The book said, “Ha!” then pulled the rug
And whispered, “You’re dead meat.”

“Just watch,” I said, and scrambled up,
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You won’t like the next chapter.
“You’ll never make it through.”

“I will,” said I, with chin held high
“I will not run and hide.”
“All right fine, but you’ve been warned,”
The book pulled me inside.

A battle raged inside the page
Where characters fought for light.
I held my breath when my favorite
Began to lose the fight.

Tears slid down my cheeks when he
Fell lifeless to the ground.
The book was right when it said that there
Was heartache to be found.

“How could you?” I wept, and pinched the page.
“How could you let him die?
He tried so hard to help his friends,
Why should he say goodbye?”

“I’m not meant for comfort, you know.
There’s more pain to be had.
But if you choose to carry on,
I promise it’s not all bad.”

I wiped my tears and turned the page
To push through all my grief.
I found the purpose for his death,
And with it came relief.

Finally I reached the end.
The story’s tale was told.
“You made it,” the book said quietly,
“And here I thought you’d fold.

“How did you like it?” the book enquired
“Did you make a few new friends?”
“I did,” I said, and tucked it close,
“I think I’ll read again.”
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