I met a woman once,
On the beaches of Rhode Island.
She told me many stories
And stared longingly at the sea.
I wondered who she was seeing at the end of it,
Where that person was.
For her eyes spoke more than her words could say.
The secret, she told me—
Was to read as many books as possible before death could take me.
She said:
I have lived a thousand lives,
Traveled through time and space,
To many a place.
I have met many people,
Felt the strongest of loves,
And laughed in the face of danger,
For I have defied it many times,
But also mourned many whom it has taken.—
This way comes at a cost.
She looked over to the sea again.
It brings with it a curse, she warned.
For there’ve been many days I’ve spent wishing I had the lives I’ve only lived in books.
While they may be better than the present,
There is no use for wasting away secretly wishing for the impossible.
It is not a reasonable way to live, she said,
And yet, I have spent all my years doing so.
She took my hand, smiled sadly:
Beware the bittersweet truth in books, dear
For they taste of sticky honey,
And ensnare you in their grasp,
Which brings always the engulfing pain of a bumble bee sting,
And takes great care and patience in healing thereafter.
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