The essence of stories is such, the writer's pen remains still,
Until a tale chooses them, and the ink begins to spill.
In the world of books, a rare story claimed my heart,
Now I belong not to myself, but to the tales that never depart.
Each word, each sentence, no longer my own,
But whispers of stories, in my soul, deeply sown.
They cling to my spirit, they live in my mind,
Bound to the depths of my heart, they're forever entwined.