on the old oak bookcase,
a million words unseen,
worlds not yet travelled,
plots pleading, to be unravelled.
characters fret in flattened pages
courageously when I pass,
battling inside the covers,
evident, if they remain undiscovered.
still chases her White Rabbit,
he stupidly stresses over time,
late, I’m late” I hear him squeal,
his world really that unreal?
day I’ll sit upon a wishing chair,
free each character as I read,
I need my White Rabbit to sit still,
I can stop, search beyond covers, and save them all.