Once, I was a book left open at dusk,
my pages sighing in the cooling air,
ink softened by tears I would not trust,
corners curled by longing laid bare.

A dragon watched from between the lines—
not cruel, only ancient, bound to flame,
its hunger knowing this heart of mine,
its shadow stitched beside my name.
I did not conquer it. Love knew
a gentler art than battles won—
to step away, to choose what’s true,
to greet the quiet rise of sun.

There were mornings a unicorn came,
white as breath on winter ground,
carrying light without a claim,
its hooves a soft, unearthly sound.
Those days were not a borrowed lie;
they were hope in passing form,
meant to lift the waiting sky,
not promise to forever warm.

With thread and trembling, careful hands,
I bound what grief had torn apart,
stitched loss to love in patient strands,
and gave new weight to wounded heart.
The book grew strong where seams were placed,
its spine made firm by every scar.

Now it opens—slow, unchased,
still learning who its chapters are.
No ending waits, no final sign—
only courage, gently won.

Success is choosing, line by line,
to turn the page,
and carry on.

No more books should close too soon.

~Mj Kay