Ink Portal

Old ancient book, older than the dust 

Encasing the folds of mysteries 

Sitting alone, forgotten 

On an old shelf, patient 

Its pages are filled with ink 

It could be a book about enchantment 

Or a portal to another world 

More rich than any could have dreamed 

Its withered pages fluttering under my breath 

The ink fading now, as cracked as the leather cover 

Stretched to its limit, its binding broken 

Its dusty smell, the smell of ancient time 

Old pages, old memories, old ink 

The writer long since forgotten 

The book remembers, remembers through the ages 

The book's casing can wither and die 

But the words are there 

They still live and breathe like always 

Like memoirs on graves of the dead 

It remains, though much else is lost 

Here through the ink portal 

The words are never forgotten