late last night
i wandered into the library of my mind
and blindly searched for a book
that could lull me to sleep

the one i grasped
was covered in old man wrinkles
yet still there hung
that new book smell

there was that yawning crinkle
to some random page
the letters skittering about
unsettled

i gently coaxed
their sharp hard edges
to something smooth to lay on
and they began to snore
so i began to read

it was not what i had expected
this book looked so old
yet its contents so new
the perspective of the painting failing me

it doesn't matter now
i am already lost
a mind is no different from reality
i am affected all the same

and as i read
the bitter metallic taste of sadness
leaks its way to my lips
a leftover reaction
from her

shortly after
a new warmth comes
one of stupidity and immaturity

a laugh gurgles through
errupting from myself
all the way
and my sanctuary is shattered
in bed i lay