Closing one door behind,
she inched to open another;
In a while, the world around, would
burst to smithereens or wane into vapor;
On all fours she moseyed.
Her eyes drifted across the spines;
With a cup of chamomile in one hand
she picked one and reclined.
Reaching for the head of the lamp,
till she had its undivided attention;
She tilted it a little towards her lap.
And off she sank to a parallel rendezvous beneath the mantle.
A tycoon from a bloodline of mythical gods,
Or a victim of unrequited love who lisped between kisses.
Restless, recluse spaghetti renegade, amongst other choices.
They all journeyed to meet her from terrains, unacquainted.
The plot would, usually, unfold at a faraway countryside.
That feeling of peculiar at first glance, yet familiar for eons;
Would follow an encounter by chance.
Usually, with an odder from a tinted race and distant land.
A murky scandal or an affair to remember.
With ups and downs, plot twists and turns.
The tale surged forward to a happily-ever-after;
And unhurriedly, at the end, her misty curtains descend.
Thus, every night she would kip on the same recliner
Or, if her joints weren’t aching, she dragged herself to bed.
Yet, not once, did she wish the line to blur
between her paperback pursuits and reality as she greyed.