Mind on Fire Books

I often find myself shopping the shelves of the local book sales and thrift shops. It’s what I like to do on my weekends, with coffee in hand, I preview book covers and read the first few sentences to see if the author can pull me in from the jump. And I know I’m not the only one, so this poem is just for you. (Photo by Christin Hume on Unsplash)

I wanted to write a poem about a book collector, for book collectors.

Ode to the Book Collector

In the realm where shadows whisper and stars converse,
Dwells a merchant of tales, a universe in verse.
A collector of chills, a seeker of the arcane,
Through library sales and thrift stores, he stakes his claim.

His fingers trace spines, each a gateway to dread,
Where monsters lurk and cosmic mysteries spread.
The covers, a canvas of fear and fantasy,
Crafted with care, they beckon with alchemy.

Online scrolls unfurl, digital pages he peruses,
Subscribing to periodicals where horror muses.
Each book, a gem, its artisan skill divine,
Binding, printing, embossing, all in line.

I watch in awe, this bibliophile's rite,
As he gathers the darkness and harvests the light.
His library, a cosmos of horror and sci-fi,
A constellation of print, under the ink-black sky.

```
Through the mists of time and space, a cover's tale unfolds,
From the paperbacks of yore, where bold artistry was bold.
In the '70s and '80s, they stood on racks, a vibrant sight,
With colors splashed and fonts ablaze, they captured the night.

Science fiction's silver ships, across starfields they'd race,
While horror's creeping shadows, gave readers a chilling embrace.
These covers, gateways to the worlds authors dared to dream,
Where aliens danced and monsters lurked, a fantastic theme.

Now modern shelves glisten with a different kind of light,
Sleek designs and holograms, a visual delight.
Yet, whether old or new, these covers share a bond,
Inviting souls to explore within, to the great beyond.
```

But hark! A twist in this tale so bold,
For each book he touches turns to solid gold.
Not by Midas' curse, but by love's own hand,
His passion transmutes, a wonderland grand.

Now, in his trove, where once paper reigned,
A golden archive, by adoration stained.
Yet still, the stories beckon, their call never ends,
In the merchant's touch, the line between worlds bends.

In this twist of fate, the merchant smiles wide, For in his heart, the true treasure resides. The books may glisten, but it’s the stories they hold, That spark the flame of wonder, forever untold.

Thank you for visiting with us. For more Poetry or Literature related content, visit our blog at The Ritual.

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