The smell of print and ink and worn pages
greet me as I walk slowly through the columns of books
tracing my finger along their spines
My eyes glance quickly between titles, across authors
Near the end of that shelf
I stop to pick one
And right then and there
I fold onto the floor
crack open the honey-colored pages
and quietly begin to disappear.
3 comments:
WHY DONT YOU WRITE MORE THIS IS WONDERFUL HAMMER.
im so glad you posted some new poems! i agree w/ tyler here, you need to post more! idk if im going on w/ heat wave though...its a bit overrated. what do you think?
PeAce
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