Our books and their eyes

How must our books see us?

Imagine their dusty eyes,
all yellowing from age and pale
milky and musty
Hoarse murmurings
dry, sandy cough

They’d see us shaking as we teeter for their every word
then SLAM
to the freezer when it all becomes too much

Too little, too late

They’ve got us mesmerised in their messages and
phrases so carefully spelled out
Oops, the proof reader didn’t proof this copy six times over
this is a grammatical error
and this,
this is a spelling mistake

They’d see us from angles we’d wish just didn’t exist
see us naked under sheets and silk
Reading by torchlight, just one more chapter
just one more poem

The dreaded and always foreseen

END

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