She’s a book.
No not a paperback, but a hardcover.
An inviting sight,
yet cold to the touch.
The scent of woody pages lingers,
the edges never ceasing
to cut your grazing finger
when you least expect it.
Her intricate words, unnecessarily bewildering
Her methaphorical phrases will have your head throbbing
as you so desperately search for their
meanings.
“Daedalian”, she would say,
“As in ingenious, intricate, and confusing”
You spend hours
figuring how to unravel her Delphic words.
The more you read the more complex she gets.
A thin line appears in the middle of her spine,
a crack,
from being opened and closed too much.
Her exhausted pages tattered and dog eared.
Your determination to solve her
was no match for her ambiguity.
She’s a hardcover
you’ll never finish reading.
