I smell it Here
The death of books
Whose prayers drift to nowhere
On the wings of ringlet smoke
I hear immortal authors
Those flammable Flamels
Who believed in their own ability
To turn ink to gold
Whose leather-bound brains crack
And whither with every shimmer
Of the heated air
Their words do nothing now but coat my lungs in ***** flakes of ash.
Dec 22, 2020
Dec 22, 2020 at 1:00 AM UTC
I smell it Here
The death of books
Whose prayers drift to nowhere
On the wings of ringlet smoke
I hear immortal authors
Those flammable Flamels
Who believed in their own ability
To turn ink to gold
Whose leather-bound brains crack
And whither with every shimmer
Of the heated air
Their words do nothing now but coat my lungs in ***** flakes of ash.
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