Dark the room
has but one light
by which I see a chair,
a blanket, a book.
Dim light may a fool make
Me, but for warmth
I am contented to sit,
and the crackled fire
is warmth and light
for which to read by.

The book in hand,
therein lying a history resplendent
of the adventure long desired,
In its pages found the loveliest
of beauties that minds can imagine,
that adventures can seek,
and tales can unfold.
Though cozy the chair by fire,
foreign the land in the lines,
Safe and warm, so disturbed
and distressed at villainy,
The complacent and still room
so elated and delighted at
the triumph of heroes,
When all seems hopeless
and the dying fire seems
ablaze with happenings, with strife,
and then the life so hoped for:
extinguished and dark.

Looking up, the same room,
another log and reignited hope
The battle, so, is not hopeless
and the victory is at hand.
Brighter and brighter the room
becomes a garden through the window;
No longer wood burns, but  sun,
and World is bigger at dawn
than cozy by fire,
The villains defeated by rays of light,
read cover to cover,
from horrid to hallelujah
and happiness of heroes and heroines.
The end
Now, off to bed and winks of sleep
and sort of dreams.