Untitled

By PJ

As it is opened, each turn is:
an inhalation, while I lift the pages,
laying them, to my left. It exhales.
As it reads, each word, brings:
a heart-beat. Sprouting, pushing,
it’s a life-giving blood: a story;
a tale; an enlightening; secrets, long held.

“Read.” As the reader’s eyes move,

the book:

quiet; still; says, to me,
as its heart beats.
As it breathes, life sprouts, in: the reader,
an intricate, slow, dance, bringing: inspiration. “I
live in these pages,” it exhales, as we inhale:
it’s tale: slowly, to the left. “Read, breathe.”

The book,

in it’s anonymous, anomaly; read, beneath, each
heart-beat, “This weaver’s tale…” and it reached:
drowsy, dormant, regions in my mind, that were
anomalous, sprouting, watering: emotions, inherited
versification, I couldn’t see, but felt, reading

the book.

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