Transforming Poetry

The book with no smell

I bought a book that doesn't smell,
And I'm more than confused,
It's pages void of scent, nothing,
It's left me quite bemused.

See all books have a story to tell,
Not ones that we can see,
But the woody, dusty stories too,
To tell us where they've been.

They can tell us how old they are,
Without peeking in the cover,
Or what kind of room they lived in,
If they were kept by a book lover.

We can smell if they've been damp,
Or if the previous owner smoked,
Some even tell what kind of tree
They came from, birch or oak?

But this book that doesn't smell,
Is a mystery to me,
I don't know what to make of it,
I know that it seems silly.

But a book without a smell,
Is like a story without a plot,
You may as well remove the ink,
Each and every spot.

It's almost an unpleasent feeling,
When I lift it to my nose,
Inhaling air for all I'm worth,
What a strange book I chose.

You see oddly enough I have
No recollection of the purchase,
I simply found it in my room,
An odd book without a purpose.

Upon closer inspection,
I found it was a book
That I had always longed to read,
So I had to take a look.

However, life continued,
And I didn't find the time,
Until just moments ago,
When I drew the line.

Having been up far too long,
I gave up on my sleep,
And decided just to take a glance,
Just a tiny peek.

And for some unkown reason,
I held the book up to my face,
And took the deepest breath,
I think the deepest of the day.

And at first it wasn't odd,
When nothing reached my nose,
And I put the book back down,
Then suddenly I froze.

Because then it finally hit me,
The book, it had no smell,
And I stared at it surprised,
Confused and scared as hell.

At first I thought that I
Had simply made a mistake,
So I took another sniff,
For my poor sanitys sake.

But again there was nothing,
So I found another book,
And pulled it from my bookcase,
And gave it a stern look.

Then I sniffed it quickly,
And the scent of wood and dust,
Entered both my nostrils,
As I knew it must.

Another book I picked,
Yet another after that,
Until I was convinced,
And on my bed I sat.

Staring at this book,
This book without a smell,
Trying to figure out,
This new and strange Intel.

A book without a scent?
Now what can this mean?
And I can't remember buying it,
Not even off a screen.

It's obviously brand new,
So wheres the brand new smell?
And where on earth did it come from?
Maybe I wasn't well?

I suddenly feel as if,
This book has two stories,
One within its pages,
And one slightly more... gory.

I feel as if this book,
Is more than ink on paper,
Almost like it's alive,
Like it is it's own maker.

I feel as though this book,
Has just begun its journey,
And what I do with it from now,
Will alter its own story.

It's like it is alive,
Like its watching all my moves,
Learning, thinking, waiting,
To make it's start quite soon.

It's strange what gets you thinking,
What gets you writing at midnight,
About a book becoming sentient,
And giving you a fright.

It's funny what can happen,
When you simply find a book,
Without it's personal story,
And it makes you start to look.

We all take things for granted,
Like the fact that books have smells,
It makes you start to wonder,
If you take for granted anything else...?