An object

In the quiet corner of my room, it stands,

An object of memories, crafted by hands.

A weathered book, with pages turned by time,

Its spine tells tales, both ordinary and sublime.

Leather-bound whispers of a distant age,

A vessel of wisdom, a literary sage.

In the fragrance of pages, stories reside,

A journey through time, with each word as a guide.

Ink-stained dreams penned with a quill,

A chronicle of emotions, both fervent and still.

Characters dance in the theater of thought,

In the silent conversations that books have brought.

A bookmark, a relic of places I've been,

Within these pages, adventures begin.

Dog-eared corners, like milestones in the mind,

An object of nostalgia, a treasure to find.

On shelves lined with worlds, diverse and vast,

The book, an object, transcending the past.

In its quiet presence, a refuge unfolds,

A sanctuary of stories, a tapestry it holds.

From dusty libraries to bedside stands,

The book, an object, that endlessly expands.

In every chapter, a new tale to chart,

An object of wonder, a work of art.