In leather’s clasp, a world abides,
Where ink-stained thoughts are gently tied.
No tempting lure, no flashing call,
Just pages bound, awaiting all.
A ghostly scent of long ago,
Of reveries that softly flow.
A silent witness, stark and bare,
To dreams that linger in the air.
The nib descends, a feather’s grace,
On fields of white, it finds its place.
And phantom tales begin to bloom,
Dispelling shadows in the room.
Each stroke, a brush against the soul,
Reveals the stories, makes us whole.
A confidante, a steadfast friend,
Until the very bitter end.
Though time may fade and colours wane,
The essence of the words remain.
A legacy in paper’s keep,
While shadowed memories gently sleep.
THE LONELY WHITE WOLF 