by Rochelle Mitchell


In dusty bookshelves
Some books gather no dust
They smell of leather,
Glue, parchment and ink
That the centuries
Cannot decay.
Calling to would-be wizards
“Open me.
Learn my magic,”
They fill your head
With tales of fancy.
Their silence call
Speaks of gold, kingdoms,
And your fondest wish granted.
Don’t listen!
Because ancient magic
Will never do as you command
The ancient magic serves no master
But itself.