Handled by grimy hands and filthy souls,
The graven image stares up
But what of this idol, who is it?
Allah, Jesu, or the I Am?

None of the above.

It is the letters that mark the holiest of lands.
Gates swing open,
Reveries and kings and lovers soar above a dried ink altar,
travel across crinkled pages,
and settle themselves firmly inside.

Dreams turned to ink,
and words turned to life.

it felt like a summer day
the sun casting shadows
consuming the world with its yellowy tint

it felt like a pat on the back
from an old friend
reaching up
and smiling wide

that book,
it felt like
a never ending friend.

Twisting tendrils of realization
Run through my evermoving mind

Up unto the age of eighteen
I abhorred alliteration

The seemingly simple
Style showed, I thought

An easy way of writing
Whatever

Just finding fitting words
With meanings matching.

Untill I read The Raven
Poe penned what is

I think, the epitome
Of epic poems

All while writing, in a weirdly
Woven way

A story of love lost
Of wishing gone awry

So since then I sometimes
Try to match "my" master

And in writing wishes
With no reasonable rhyme

I uncover my understanding
Of my own simplistic stupidity

But beside that also, always,
Of how beautiful a language loved
Can be.

if, while on the other side of the world,
you buy me a book
and post it to me
along with the words
'i read this and i thought of you
and i knew you had to read it too'
then what else is left for me to do
except
         to
           fall
               in
                 love
                       with
                              you.

I read to escape
I write to be free

When reading
I am taken to different worlds  

When writing
I reveal the problems of mine own

Reading takes me away
Writing keeps me from going astray