There is a place 

Where the stories 

are real

And their tellers 

Are not 

Where the dreamers

Lay awake 

And the lovers 

Wrap and unwrap 

Like beautifully crumpled 

Unwanted presents

Where people 

can fly

And animals 

can talk 

Where the flowers and trees 

Cry 

At the loss of their leaves 

And the snapping of 

Their branches 

Where the wind whispers 

Its secrets 

To all and sundry 

And no one 

Has to pretend 

They didn’t hear 

A thing 

Where a night 

Can last a thousand 

Tears 

And a man 

Can sleep for 

A hundred years 

It’s a well kept secret

Scratched on a pirate’s map 

Yet they say 

Those who find it 

Are cursed 

To never return 

Whether they follow it 

Or not 

Though some may say 

We never return 

From the way we live 

From the thorns 

Of experience 

We are pricked with 

Along the way 

So what are we 

If not 

the book

The story 

The illustrator 

And The author 

And who’s to say 

We’re not