Fiction Aid

 When mind grows weary,

 And heart grows heavy;

old books And boredom wraps,

 Your soul and body;

 Summon from the shelves of dust,

 A golden book,

 Both old and heavy;

Whose pages bear,

The yoke of magic;

Where every word is, but a spell,

And wars wear cool serenity;

Where love is not just romance,

And survival of the weakest, still has a chance.

There is no stead as fiction,

To take us lands away;

 It brings fresh air,

To ruffle our hair,

When the scores of life,

Suffocate us with strife.

 When horses neigh,

And lions roar,

When elves and dwarves,

Men young and old;

Make garrisons tall,

To disperse the pall,

That shrouds their lands and hearts;

It fills us with, a life renewed,

Derived from the soldiers fallen.

That fight though false,

Just phrase and clause;

Irons the cloth of life,

Of all its folds and subtleties rife.

It gives u new hope,

New vigour, new scope;

To lead our battles on,

To look up to new dawn;

To unravel some mystery,

And make some history;

 As much in defeat as in victory.

So hold not back your heart and hand,

From feeling something, so massively grand,

Thinking it to be a waste of time;

A waste of time, that does not rhyme,

To the harsh reality we all call life,

That stands endangered at the point knife.

It is the greatest nurse of life,

It serves you like a perfect wife;

It disperses your fatigue with just a glance,

It is like sleep in waking stance;

It fosters hope, interest and morals,

Speaking of royal exotic laurels;

And brings a rest of its own,

 A fruit of the seed its author had sown.


Featured Image Font : Rebecca Simpson @ [email protected]


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1 Comment

  1. It would be unfair to say that the burden and fatigue that comes with gobbling the heavy books of medical science has conjured the poet in you. though it could have had a profound effect. Nevertheless, you have always been a poet and its a beautiful poem 🙂

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