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…

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