A Man and His Book

He sat in a chair,
Reading his book;
Not giving thought
That he’d turn and look,
And see different things
Flying around
While he and his chair
Stayed flat on the ground.
He wasn’t annoyed
When the pages would flatter.
He heard not the sounds
Of colliding things clatter.
He stuck with his book,
Intrigued by the plot.
The wind died down;
It was now getting hot.
He felt not the vampires
Surging his skin
Not more than a half
Of a centimeter thin.
He wasn’t aware of
The trickling sweat.
Whenever he nudged
Spots were left wet.
Turning the pages,
He kept on reading.
The mosquitos flew
And left him bleeding.
It was starting to drizzle,
You could hear the thundering.
But deep in that book
His mind was still plundering.
He felt not the mist
Of the droplets’ spray,
For he still believed
It was a sunny day.
The rain had stopped,
The frogs were blirping.
If the birds weren’t wet
They came out for chirping.
The sun came out
To warm the grass.
It struck his skin
To a glossy brass.
He read five chapters
In two-hours span.
In one of those hours
He’d burned a good tan.
The chapters were piecing
The way he’d want them.
His imagination ran
And circled to haunt him.
The character seemed real,
He thought he was there.
It was quite an emotion
When the book took a dare.
And then, he stopped reading,
He felt the heft.
He went inside
With………
One……….
Chapter ……….
Left!

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