Slow Reader

Sorry, I’m a slow reader, it’s true,
Each word I ponder, each sentence I chew,
In the realm of books, I find my retreat,
Where stories and thoughts in harmony meet.

The pages, they whisper, tales of old,
My journey through them, a treasure to hold,
With patience as my guide, I embrace the art,
Of savoring each line, igniting my heart.

The characters dance within my mind,
Their emotions and struggles, vividly defined,
Though the pages turn not as swiftly for me,
The depth I discover is worth every plea.

So let the world rush in its rapid stride,
In the universe of books, I choose to confide,
For within these pages, time finds its grace,
And I’ll relish each chapter, at my own pace.

A symphony of words, I humbly explore,
With every read, I cherish it more,
So bear with me, dear friends, if you may,
For in the world of literature, I’ll always stay.

The Cool Elephant

In lands where sun and breeze conspire,
An elephant with dreams inspired,
By poolside’s edge, a reader’s grace,
Sipped cocktails as tales they embrace.

With mighty trunk and gentle soul,
Among the books, they found their goal,
In lounging hours ‘neath skies so blue,
An intellect vast, forever grew.

Pages turned by dexterous tusk,
In worlds of prose, they’d deeply trust,
Novels, poems, wisdom’s stream,
A literate pachyderm’s dream.

As sun dipped low, and stars would gleam,
Still by the pool, lost in a scheme,
An elephant, wise and oh so cool,
Found joy in reading, by the pool.

The Book-Loving Penguin

In a world of ice and snow, a penguin dwelled,
In his armchair, content, his heart was swelled,
For there was nothing he loved more, you see,
Than to read a book, and let his mind roam free.

With feathers fluffed, and a cosy nook,
He’d waddle to his chair, with his favourite book,
Pages turned, adventures unfurled,
In the warmth of his den, he’d conquer the world.

From tales of brave explorers bold,
To mysteries untold, of secrets to behold,
His imagination soared, like the wind on high,
As he turned each page with a glint in his eye.

Through words, he’d journey to distant lands,
Where golden sands slipped through his hands,
In the magic of stories, he found solace and glee,
The penguin in his armchair, happy as can be.

So, if you find him there, on a chilly night,
With starry skies above, and the moon shining bright,
Know that his joy lies in the tales he’s fed,
The penguin and his books, forever entwined, well-read.