The untitled book on the floor,
With rips and tears on its couver.
A tattered spine.
Laying there, unnoticed,
in the fields of books
at the library.
Nothing can soothe the pain its felt.
But one can always reiterate the pain,
Or simply toss it into a hot box
Where it can burn slowly.
"It".
Of course, there's no other name for this book.
It has no title!
But does a book really need a title,
More than it does someone with one to read this book?
So it can flourish and receive a title,
So it doesn't experience all of this withering?
Perhaps.
But is that really what the book wants?
Is that really what the author wants?
The bookbinder? (Those still exist)
The reader themselves?
Or does this book want to be sold into
The battleground of merciless bloodshed,
Where its always going to be treated like a thing;
Rather than the contents of their character.
Inspired by Django Unchained and slavery.