In the room full of 
Stories and imaginations 
From across the world
That fit in the fine racks,
Some give the warmth 
Of that of a bonfire;
Like the perpetual fire cracks
That echo throughout the night,
There are a few racks that 
Caste uneven light. 

There are some books 
That carry in themselves 
The chapters that call for rain,
Pain is merely a blame,
The absence of any light at all
Marks the beginning of enrage,
And if I continued to read
And surrendered to rage,
I'd end up ripping the page.
So, I leave the book half-read
To imagine a new half-way-through
That'd allow my hopes to 
Make a rope out of the threads.