The oldest oak in the forest,
Branches like a web across the sky,
A girl like a spider in her home,
Her secret world.
The great expanse of alike houses,
Bordered by bushes, only a gap once,
The smallest of holes, but secluded,
A boy like a moth in a cocoon,
His secret world.
The last aisle, so filled with books,
A place only found by the smallest of kids,
To squeeze through a shelf, to sit alone with the stories,
A secret world.
The fondest of places,
Where only you know,
The mind conjures its magic,
And you wander places only you can imagine,
Your own secret world.
