Sheaves of poetry unread,
more pages untouched,
will they get dusty or rusty,
like forgotten tools in the shed,
the dread,
that having much poetry to read,
to have such a vast need,
and leaving it undone,
incomplete,
many more books beside my bedside,
will to build some shelves and nook
them away so that privately to stay,
alone,
surrounded by the profound thoughts
and words that are not mine, for
then may I learn that the voices,
that speak and applaud inside my
head like thunder and the flashes
of light like cameras at the synapses,
are about learning,
not yearning,
to own what is not used,
to store what can be bought,
to use what is useful,
may it be
for the purpose
it was intended.
Not just fresh paper knives
that cut that fine line in your skin
to let you know and remind you
it is what where you were marked,
did it foster change?
Literature and prose,
biographies, books of science,
even one checked out from the public library,
mad you say, come and stay,
for a day, in my library...then we'll see who is mad.
Bring with you the want to go, or else your will you won't know.
Tangent, Phantom of the Library?