My book draws to an end. Pages turn over like crisp well-worn autumn leaves - falling from their saving grace at the turn of a cold, natural end.
I write with a poisoned pen.
Her pure flow never ends. Black as soul. Golden grace.
My book is woven with black lace.
Each bare, crude and naked page - beautified by a golden sunrise. The lantern glow peeps through the curtain - drawn night. The inkwell is my fountain - like a spout of rays, drowning out the moon.
I run my finger down the day-break spine. Frayed and torn. She holds onto the leaves evermore. Though broken and bent, she holds me up - right upto the sky.
Finally, I can reach up, caress the universe and knock the moon down to where she belongs. The book glides closed. The soft, cloudy cover catches my misty eyes. My peasant hands glide off the soft glove of the book as she rests on a warming shelf.
Her marble podium, kissing the sky.
VOCÊ ESTÁ LENDO
Book I: Vox Nihili
PoesiaAn open book of poetry and raps to share with the world. Letters and words are curled and woven onto the page to share in our modern age. May it relenquish you and free your soul from its cage - inspire your inner desire to set your own fires that b...
