We all write wistful poetry
About wings to help us fly
When all we really need
Is to simply close our eyes.
Out of lifelessness or bliss,
We would still be
**Sky high.

Your cover is hard, your spine is broken
and all of your pages are torn
Your corners are folded, your text is stained
but my heart felt as if there was more

I stood on my toes and reached for you,
struggling to extend to the highest shelf
The tips of my fingers grazed your grey board binding,
the excess paper and rags created to embody your whole self

All you've known are the footsteps and whispers
of strangers who have passed you by
refusing to give your tattered leaves
a chance to peel open their sealed minds

In my possession you are beautiful,
full of wonder and infinite pleasure
I'll envelop myself in every one of your pages
like a pirate admires every piece of his treasure

is in the middle of

LiE
SiN
BiG
WiN

Let me not
be in middle
of self serving
and
self engrandizement


let me be in the middle of

*HiM