I hear the postman’s footsteps fade away
An ancient book slipped through my door
Of a size, my letterbox could not explain
No way for me to know who sent it
What magic do I hold?
With shaking hands, I barely held the book in place
The pages turned with will unknown
I read strange words as best I could
These words, they changed once read, renewed
One thousand stories lay ahead
A map of red and gold, leading through forest glades
Four doors stand ahead, marked past, present, future unknown
Whichever you choose, your journey is guaranteed return
One question still remains, which one would you choose?
Should I read the book again, read the changes within?
Whose pen did write such magic?
One book with a thousand ever- changing stories
Must have come from door number four…