Used Books


I ran to the door.

As though, I were a guest in my own home.

There had been a line up of years.

There had been much discernment.

A vast exhibition of word from dog-eared tears.

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From space and time.

From a science undefined.

Nothing could abate my thirst.

No slang or vetted vista…

The stained sentence had been the first.

¿

The newborn in my century old feet came rushing toward the porch.

A past portfolio of used books…read, heard…not always learned.

Still I smiled inside and out.

Smirked and thanked a bewildered stranger.

Who offered only expressions that were blank.

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Thus, amid sentences, no one cannot truly confide.

I now sit…

No longer perplexed.

No longer ignorant to that I have not seen yet.

Awaiting chapters, used not broken.

Holding on by tooth and nail to a fictional sentence.

And, other words that will not be spoken.

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