For Afua

Books cannot be loved for their self;
It is the secret gratification therein that help
Free you from the labyrinths
That hovers over you like a ghost

Those countless pages whatever they hold,
Is a journey worth onto the unknown;
Like light propels you into things never seen,
Though you are slow to disown the web strings
Those dried bones, those dark thoughts, those beliefs.

But the joys in new found knowledge breathes
Into your erstwhile dark shallow mindset
That lay vast and barren like a desert
That only makes companion of a drifting wind

So books become your oasis of thinking,
Forever keeping fresh, forever oiling;
Forever bringing life, forever making meaning;
Forever making of you a human of understanding…