This book is suddenly weighty in my hand, feeling like
flesh instead of paper, heavy like that,
like words are not the only thing contained
between the gnarled spaces of pages.
It is a living thing, with a heartbeat
all of it's own,
thudding eerily against my palm.
Comments
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Taken straight foreward as a poem about book, I really enjoyed it. It reminded me of the works by one of favorite authors - Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Great job.
Mike
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Dostoyevsky rocks my russian loving socks
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