Posts tagged ‘Poetry’

June 8, 2013

For The Lover of an Unopened Book

locked book

There you sit, one among many,
words hanging vertically on your spine.
Words that often hide
the real substance of your inner-self.
Maybe a hint,
maybe a clue,
often a riddle
to the real story.

You are chosen,
picked from the lot,
slammed into circulation of other beings
merely
by the package you wear.
That mask,
that illusory covering
that binds a hidden reality.

Often, perhaps,
Another soul,
Sensing symbiosis,
So unlike you but with a part
That yearns for a parallel reading,
looks beyond the opaque title,
beyond the aesthetic first glance,
beyond the commercially accepted,
commercially tainted you
and finds words,
words that bridge separate realms
of thought.

Words that flow together,
forming abstract sentences
from which no meaning is gleaned
until these same sentences snowball
into transparent paragraphs.
Thus revealing
a story,
a thought process,
a goal, a means to an end.

Words,
that reveal the theme of your story,
the framework of your plot,
the cause of your climax
and your eventual conclusion.

A structure so thought out,
so contrived,
so blatantly conceived
that the pages of your epic
lie in numerical sequence.

The stages of your voluminous being
are chaptered,
indexed with key words for those,
for those with a momentary purpose,
a fleeting interest.
For those without the time,
for those without the desire,
or the ability to completely know,
the rest of the story.

And yet,
still others sit,
amongst the same from whence you came.

they sit as the un-chosen.
they sit as souls unread,
as souls in un-immortalized existence,
as souls with no revised editions
on the literal horizon.

No chance to market.
no chance to reveal.
no chance to circumvent
perceptual rejection.
Shelved.

Yet they still sit,
in plain view, just as you.
Containing words that flow,
words that construct,
that construct a life,
a life born from the pen of hope,
and now lying in forlorn type.
They lie in perpetual plainness.
A paradoxical ruin.

But yet,
their spines remain clean,
their spines remain straight.
their pages of thought remain crisp,
their pages of thought remain white.
Their binding still strong,
protecting their inner-self
from indexing interlopers.

Yes,. Other still sit,
waiting,
for the lover
of an unopened book.