Lined with numbers and names, where the rubber meets the road. It guides the lost and hosts the hurried, a concrete river flowing through urban jungles.

In drawers I stay, both lone and pairs, Knit from cotton threads, or sometimes sheep hairs, Worn by the young and the old alike, A cozy hug that feels just right.

This monster lurks beneath the earth, with many eyes and creeping girth. It loathes the light, turns it green, and it surges with a poison mean.

You dip, you lift, then lines appear, while I sit silent, ever near. I hold the dark your thoughts compel, a quiet pool where letters dwell.

Soft island where dreams set sail, cradling weary travelers, yet never moving an inch.