I peeled off the ribbons of cursive ink,
Words, they're called, apparently.
But all I see in the pages free
of ink is blankness
that the ribbons briefly hid.
It's a book, Someone whispers and I laugh.
What's a book? Pages filled with ink.
It's NOT a book, I whisper back.
It's magic trapped in liquid black.
Magic? Someone scoffs.
What is magic? It's not real.
But what is real? I then ask.
It's blank pages
dipped in solid thoughts
and painted in vapor dreams.
But what is MAGIC? I hear Someone hiss,
It's NOT a book.
It's not a book, I agree,
and I've pissed Someone off immeasurably.
It's the words, I tell them.
It's the words. The magic's not the ink or book.
The magic's in the eyes that read,
and in the curves of the cursive ink.