Within pages I have lived a thousand lives,
I have become generations of souls,
Each one fashioned by words,
So the mind could feel
What the heart perceives.
In books I have loved and lost,
I have mourned for deaths penned in ink,
Black blood tracing lines on paper
Across hands grasped to leather bound covers,
With the tenderness of lovers.
Asleep beside them,
These books become my home,
Their stories infinitely renewed;
Forever never alone...
We wearisome beasts
Fumbling feet racing towards dusk
And unpromised dawns.
Eager to complete,
Our daily deaths
Praying to be reborn.