Turning over the folds of paper
The feel of rough parchment
Against gentle fingertips
The smell of age, of history
Intoxicating against eager nostrils
The cloud-like sensation
Of being weightless and afloat
As if shifted to an alternate reality
Somewhere far beyond worlds
Encapsulated in the whimsy
But if the pages become real
What is my fiction?
Is there any hope of recovery?
There is not
Nor will there ever be
Fiction fades into fact
And whimsy to sense
As is nature, as is life
At least the memory remains
If nothing else
And it just may be
The most important thing
The things we find in the library
Are the ones we must cling to
Until our knuckles turn white
أنت تقرأ
Poems of an anchor
الشعرI'm a poet, and yes, I know it I am very fond of poetry and writing. I'm the kind of person who never verbalizes my feelings. I prefer to write them down, transforming them into literary works of art. Words bear comfort and catharsis for my heart an...
