Reading

May 9, 2011
By
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I hold a book:
253 pages,
15 chapters,
too-many-to count syllables,
all of which I call my own.

I crack open
the soft red binding.
Words reach into my eyes
and swarm my brain,
each personalized
with meaning,
with texture,
with pleasure.

I am hypnotized
by the circles of the Os,
and transfixed by the
half of a
figure eight
we call an S.

My finger brushes
the page number
that is smiling up at me
from the ivory paper.
Untouched,
until now.

Why would I ever want to stop?





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Kai17 said...
Jan. 23, 2012 at 3:54 pm
:) Perfectly done.
 
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