There I sat, on the self. Other books around me were covered in a blanket of dust, but not me. I was pulled and push back and forth off and on the shelf. My owner would leaf through my pages even into the early hours of the morning. I was a volume of particular interest, I held theories and ideas so profound that my master would often put me down and pick me right back up to re-read something. He would invited friends over and discuss and debate my views. My words enthralled him. My maker had crafted me with such care and wit that it mesmerized many people. Colorful adjectives and strong adverbs portrayed plights and disasters of all kinds.
One day I was plucked from my dwelling on the shelf. I had been basking in the sunshine from the setting sun pouring in from the west window of the study. I was rent from this tranqulity and shoved in unfamiliar hands. My master said things of me being a wonderful book and that the man holding me would enjoy me very much. I could not believe it. I was given away. At one moment I graced the shelves of a brilliant man, and then I was handed off like a batton. I gasped in astonishment as I was pulled through the doorway and as my former master put a new book in my place.
you sat on the *self
ReplyDeletehe *would invited* friends over
and *wit that
handed off like a *batton