Leather bound book called "Soliloquy"
With a red, beating center
Embossed green leather stamped with leaves
A novel without any beginning, no end,
My pages turned over , worn at the edges
But never actually really read
A stranger with cool fingers
Runs his hand down my spine
Sending shivers
Making my words inside me quiver
He is light
With dark rimmed eyes
Taking me right
Towards his location
I'm gravitating
But I'm not map
And I've never been good at navigating
I'm loosing him as he,
He glances,
But he puts me back
His dark stature and old eyes now uninterested
I'm panicking
I'm becoming frantic
You are fading
Like my ink
Stay! We have something in common!
I feel my edges yearn for him
Dog ear me to your heart's desire!
I'll let you bleach me sunny!
He's walking away,
Please!
Let you stay...
And mend my paper
He's gone
And I settle back down
On my wooden shelf
I breathe in the disturbed dust
Sit in the still air
These chance occurrences
Leave the possibility
Of one day being really read
The shelf life is the hell life
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
Leather bound book called "Soliloquy"
With a red, beating center
Embossed green leather stamped with leaves
A novel without any beginning, no end,
My pages turned over , worn at the edges
But never actually really read
A stranger with cool fingers
Runs his hand down my spine
Sending shivers
Making my words inside me quiver
He is light
With dark rimmed eyes
Taking me right
Towards his location
I'm gravitating
But I'm not map
And I've never been good at navigating
I'm loosing him as he,
He glances,
But he puts me back
His dark stature and old eyes now uninterested
I'm panicking
I'm becoming frantic
You are fading
Like my ink
Stay! We have something in common!
I feel my edges yearn for him
Dog ear me to your heart's desire!
I'll let you bleach me sunny!
He's walking away,
Please!
Let you stay...
And mend my paper
He's gone
And I settle back down
On my wooden shelf
I breathe in the disturbed dust
Sit in the still air
These chance occurrences
Leave the possibility
Of one day being really read
The shelf life is the hell life
© Amara Pendergraft 2013
My deepest apologies for the lengthiness of this.
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