In nothing, but books

I hear the voices, when you crack the spine
from page to page, the clouds hold out the blue
of skies that start as clear to him as you.
In novels written out and underlined,

Author dreams come spilling forth to grow
stories from the soul to please her whim
from seeds her index finger plants for him
in different climes, contrary row-by-row.

A hero’s man, no less a vagabond
the mistress wholely anxious in her soothe
neither seeking love or much ado;
yet, the words conspire to spur them on.

and love peeks in, then crawls out from its shell
with tales of kings and queens and breaking spells.

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2 thoughts on “In nothing, but books

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