Bibliophile

I fly through never ending time

Ride waves of verse and prose,

Taste all the secret treasures that

In hidden gardens grow.

 

As parchment flutters blindingly

Before my weary eyes,

I hear my siren sing me near

And follow with a sigh.

 

Here and there, then back again,

I’m jolted far away,

Pulled and ripped from here and now,

To where? I cannot say.

 

I never know quite where I’ll wake,

In times gone by, or distant lands,

I never know when I’ll return

Unto my own familiar sands.

 

Sometimes I drift to yet-to-come

And see things yet unseen,

I hear the words of unborn youth

As from within my dreams.

 

A prisoner of the whirling black

On musty sheets of white,

I soar unbidden through these worlds,

Enamored of the flight.

 

I can’t escape, yet I’m more free

Than those outside my cage

Who’ve never been, nor yet will be

Addicted to the page.

 

3-27-12

 

 

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