A poem.

I like the smell of madness in a good book.

The feeling of the writer behind each paragraph;
how one person can create a place 
made of magic
from the insides of their mind
and thus, become separate from the real world.

People claim they read books to escape reality,
but what of the author?
Where does their mind lie?
Further down in their plot lines
than you 
with your nose between the pages
on a sunny day
under the oldest tree.

But writers tend to lock up
to convince themselves of their world
until it becomes real.

The secret to a good book
is the amount of madness
kept in between 
its keeper’s locks and keys.

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