poetry

Tomes In Spate

I hoard them.
Stacked high,
Pushed deep,
Tilted
And adjusted
As puzzle pieces
In a bookcase.
Overflowing,
Till they cascade,
A waterfall of words,
To pool at my feet
In a comfort
Of warm paper
And hard covers,
That smell of
Knowledge
Power
Imagination
And connection.
Their allure,
Their devastation,
Flows against my soul
In gentle undulations
And violent tsunamis
To move me both minutely
And throw me upon rocky shores.
Always
Always
Do they affect me,
Drawing forth tears
Like a divining rod,
For both their beauty
And their tragedy.

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