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There are so many, so many books.

The shelves, the shelves

all full of words, full of words

already written before.

What to choose? The “I’ve been there,

done that” To read them if I like,

but all I will have to mind

is someone else’s trip —

and have it compared to mine;

just the type to read, to show me

what I'm not; or maybe missing out on!

 

There are books that duplicate,

mostly, the same idea.

So when I look, I look for one

of one’s experience, written in 'The here';

not of journeys of the world,

but of the journeys taken within.

 

When I read of the experience

it is, for me, to see beyond the mind,

and as I do I begin to realise

the truth, that is myself; and of the meaning,

it is the experience that I will live.

The words will filter through.

From deep within, I hear;

from deep within, I see

and if I am truly touched

I will sense that it is life;

the breathing of the book.

 

To sense the experience

and to send it to my heart

I will be in the writer’s mind;

the ideas and understanding

never too far apart;

and to see the writer’s intent:

the thoughts before the lines.

The energy on the page, moving,

transmitting to my Life.

 

I may look and ask myself

“Why did I choose this book?”

In the title, the thought,

the intention; to ponder

the reasons for my choice.

Maybe the intuition, leading to decide

to move on, to change,

to progress along the path.

Maybe to a question

of myself, not yet asked;

or to find the answer

to a query before it arrives.

Whatever the reason for the books I choose

I know so much as this:

there will be a gift for me,

waiting; somewhere between the lines.