In a dream I am standing small between ceiling high cherry wood shelves;
books of blue, red, black, white and taupe glow as gemstones set on a neat and comfortable display.
I scan my minds library, my nose tensing with the tickle of soft, thick air.
A dust has settled over the milky calfskin with the plated gold zipper,
cross nestled securely in the fold of the top left corner.
Inside gilded pages stand ***** and entombed, making a catacomb of unread stories, of forgotten lives.
Once opened, unfamiliar text peels from the page,
soon figurines of ink dance for me before hardening into rows of letter like statuettes.
After indulging my curiosity
my cheeks are left wet with the saltine byproduct of sorrow, bloodshot eyes glazed over.
Like the televised open-heart surgery we find ourselves perpetually glancing up at
I read on.
Brown faces contorted and pallid feature wide eyes
whites more yellow than white with spherical black centers.
A thousand babies cry to me as if in mourning
and with their despair buzzing in my skull and crawling on my skin
I shut the book and pull the zipper.