A book engages us in an
interesting word-play
all in an assonant world.

We hook into it
as we stir-fry in a pan,
trying our best to cook.
We look into it
as we retire to a nook,
on a rainy afternoon.

We binge on it
to unhook our sorrows.
We lose ourselves in it
and might overcook the soup.

When we don’t read people like
how we would devour a good read,
won’t we lose at poker to a rook?
Like a banal novel
that we refuse to put away,
when we stick with some
we could be stiffed by a crook.

I took a text, on English
a tad seriously,
yet it is fascinating and funny,
it broke the mind and
shook the funny bone.

A book could
makes us feel at home
and can still send us on a journey.
When the odyssey, that
we as the reader endure,
aligns with writer’s world,
it is an exhilarating synergy.

A book would
make us forge a relationship
with us, and within us as well.
When we turn the last page,
either we feel a little
as if we have lost a friend;
or we feel a tad
as if we must turn over a new leaf.

A book should
ignite a lasting conversation…
starting with one,
between it and our mind,
throttling to one
between the mind and our psyche.

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