i made a mental note
not so long ago:
i matched the dots
and saw
(or maybe rather “touched”)
that almost all
the books that come
into my life
for a reason,
to change it
and/or stay have
the same wondrous
smell
chosen by me
that i
adore in
a book.

art,
as physical plastic one,
will
show
my eyes so deeply that
one/you will feel
nostalgia for something
you’ve never known before
once gazing into them,
wet,
glistened,
a maze,
and in a daze.

musings:
second true form
how poetry arrives to
me
and chooses me!

forms are
all diamond facets,

just so many.
i want to make them,
become me so
much.
in my due now that
will come
by the will of.
Allah.