The spine of the book

The smell of the pages is
musty, but not unpleasant,
almost like fruit
on the edge of decay –
sweet enough
to draw me deeper.

The words paint a world
that I can step into –
slipping between the lines of text,
where minutes
dissolve into hours
and monsters breathe.

I am a phantom in this place,
beyond the sharp scent of blood,
a shadow that traces the edges
of the hero’s journey.

While somewhere,
in the real world,
the sun has begun to set.