It's just a book,
But it can guide you better than a teacher,
If you are a sinner,
It holds the power to make you preacher.

It's just a book,
But it holds the world with its words,
Which can change your world,
Can let you be geek or nerd.

It is the most precious,
Only existing thing that can change,
From a gangster to a gracious,
It can clear what's normal or strange.

The intoxic flame framed phrase, burned my heart.
The unholy sin was unspoken, foreshadowed in the words.
Her captivating silky hair were surely not washed of fain, but of something more cleansing something more, concentrated.
Soft silence on her tongue, emphasised her words because the rose she spoke of was never found anywhere, but smelled in her books which had no bookmark.
The brightness that highlighted dark, was traitor
It represented her unkindliness with grace,
What looked in her coy, was actually pride
And her trap shaped in a window to good times.

Her scent was morphine, her smirk another shot, her plead an order, her wish, motive.
With guilt formed wrong thoughts of her, with pleasure her image.
But she was someone wise, who carried a knife and killed with smile.

A proof of truthful reading.
That it’s still of me and that I live:
Left out of and in crying,
Its [story’s] departure by pain of death trespassing.
Justly, so.

Every ending sentence of a subchapter
was here a melancholy more punctuating
Than all the statuses of things
Coming and leaving, explaining better
Than silence.

Lace in eyes/meshes of the numbers,
In God’s notebook.
Miracles of joy, of enigmas from Poetry
Poured had been into the study
In navy blue of mathematics.

The beige of rain of each dot
At the end of each subchapter.

Now I know what the blank pages are for:
Literature is a person,
At their death you don’t leave them
without a word, a touch.
You leave, at least, an epitaph,
with beloving or not.
For at one time you both decided
to bear with each other as one.
You let each letter have and bear
its part in your mind’s eye.

Every time you read:
“My memory lasts 80 minutes.”
Ellipsis.

Thank you
ありがとう

The book was soaking on a bench
in the park.
It was dripping from my hands the
whole way home.
It was drying on the sill when first
it sparked.
It was warm and dry again when
out it roamed.

Think my mind is too cloudy to sieze
I don't want anymore for ease
Just a little joy
A drop of hope
An empathetic  word to cope
A page of book to release
& a hand to hold!