A teal top is tattered towards a water ring,

crisp pages with yellow edges are tainted

with musk. Literature has been painted

for the guidance to never be fleeting.

Stories are hidden through fields of sonnets,

the secrets of villanelle at last revealed.

Pattern of sound is the treasure to yield,

for wielders of words empower and don it.

Destruction or enlightenment is what to bring,

Harsh consonants and soft vowels have me grated.

The knowledge embued must be used in the field,

but for now it rests with dust upon it.