The floorboards creak beneath my feet.
And a hush hangs in the air.
You can smell the dust and old.
Shops like this are rare.
If you listen carefully,
You can hear the muffled snores,
Of every single sleeping book,
In the whole book store.
Gently open up a Tome
And watch it stretch and yawn.
The charming fellow's cover is scuffed,
And some of his pages are torn.
How can anyone say,
That books aren't people or a race?
I say books are people,
Why else have they spines and a face?
Stephanie Dower
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/books-are-people/
