The floorboards creak beneath my feet. <br />And a hush hangs in the air. <br />You can smell the dust and old. <br />Shops like this are rare. <br />If you listen carefully, <br />You can hear the muffled snores, <br />Of every single sleeping book, <br />In the whole book store. <br />Gently open up a Tome <br />And watch it stretch and yawn. <br />The charming fellow's cover is scuffed, <br />And some of his pages are torn. <br /> <br />How can anyone say, <br />That books aren't people or a race? <br />I say books are people, <br />Why else have they spines and a face?<br /><br />Stephanie Dower<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/books-are-people/
