In the library of life I sit,
In between the pages of a torn old romantic novel,
tea stained and tarnished.
Or possibly in between the pages of the heavy reference book,
you know,
the one that has to live in the library,
too heavy to take home,
Consider that there may be supporting evidence,
for leaving me in situ,
in a curious sort of way,
that maybe instead,
I'm hid, far inside a shiny brand new poetry book,
arguing with the poet, as my words are different to his or hers,
I could even be a missive, full of suggestion, creased between the leaves,
of a crisp new paperback,
If I'm feeling cynical, I may hide in a bible, deep in the bibliotheque!
(C) Livvi