There was once a boy
bony and frail
alone in the corners of the pages
he’d sit and wave
when by chance he’d come across another
live and vibrant and free.
He’d feel the pages flip one by one
and held on for the moment to feel air on his own fibrous skin
as they’d flip him along with another page.
His home was on the corner of Page 102
and he’d seen what they’d done to 101 and 103
dog-eared and worn over the years.
He knew not if he felt lucky
that nothing of importance was on his address.
All he yearned for was to be real for a minute.
Was it irony, he was part of a fairy tale collection,
and his companion on 102 was another Boy made of wood
whose wish was the same:
To be a real Boy?!
So came one day, he was borrowed once again
along with the book,
and so he waited once more to be flipped
to feel the air under his wings.
Instead he heard rip-rip
distant and drowned, till it came to 102.
The page was ripped, by a boy who cared little.
And scared he sent the scribble who hung onto the dear page for life.
The world turned upside down and inside out and dark and light
till he came to find himself on a paper boat
on whose side sat he, flying through the air
And land it did, drifting on the glistening pond surface
with wind sending it forward, once,
and after all free, from pages, from pages.
The Scribble Boy smiled,
he may not be real but he was now free
to move where he pleased.
Until it was that the evening fell
darkness swept and no more real world remained
as waves of rain pitter pattered, soaking the boat
till nothing of it remained.
No more Scribble boy,
no more dream
of a magical life for he.