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.


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.


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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