Longing for the kiss of bitter reality,

Much of bare humane nature has been deprived of mentality.

Though the holy reputation,

The Anglican halls fill with the souls of the unwanted and unloved.

Much atonement to be done,

All in the name of Himself.

Said a few prayers amidst this deadly nightshade,

filled with poison,

But blessed with beauty and rage.

Shaking the wings of their terrible youth,

we strayed from the heavens above.

Mistaking pain for love,

masochists,

with the love for such *******,

all alone in our dark paradise.

Whilst we knew that the “happy ending” that love promised

is likely to never be fulfilled,

We went in search of the rich wine that intoxicates us,

the empty pitcher.

After searching for our angel for decades, we finally

stumbled upon him,

He helped us to unfurl our wings and guided us, the devils,

to soar high into the heavens in ourselves,

Constantly reminding us,

that the devil,

was once an angel too.

while reading the book
i’m living by the way it hooks

reading in the right place
with the slow pace

highly concentrated
distractions is faded

re-read
when i need to

no interest in page number
and what is under

preaching the power of the word
pinning them on my cork-board

the pancil is in my hand
like a magic wand

symbols, outlines
comments, questions

Books as old as time, casing as brown as my eyes
the taste of bliss and amour
a deep thud once placed on the library table
the smell of grass and that faint vanilla scent
wise and rare, beat-up and old looking
as I awoke and flung into a kingdom full of quotes.
the habit that's like a disease, for which there is no cure,
as I frown, I smile, I cry, deep within me is what I feel. a burst of emotions a vintage book could bring.

and the days are getting shorter.
Hours into minutes into seconds,
squished together like nesting dolls
until they are lost to infinity. You don't

know the value of sleep yet,
so read your dog-eared paperbacks
by the muted glow of your flashlight,
hidden under your blankets like a

prodigal son. Keep your heavy eyes open
because the pictures in your books
will silently climb out of their pages
while you're asleep, escaping through your

bedroom window. Your bones are getting longer
and your book bag is getting heavier.
So spend your precious seconds wisely,
because as the years change, those seconds will get shorter.

She has a vintage soul,
Full of rusty and dusty memories,
With the antique eyes
That seen some terrible events,
Her beauty reflects
the Victorian epoch,
Her wisdom is such sterling that
Vanquish the wisdom of Socrates,
But the fate and destiny
Leads her in the 21st century,
She feels like an alien
Who lives in a stranger place
But for her comfort in this world,
She has her books and a coffee mug.

–Humaira

Seconds, minutes, and hours tick by
Huddled within walls as the time flies
Some of us knit, or sing, or write
Others watch movies to get through the night

If you're searching for me, rush to the nook
You will find me there, on my lap rests a book
Who is counting the days, has it been three or four?
And now many must pass, until the virus is no more

At home is best, think of the others
I tell myself from under the covers
One book read, turned to five then six
Thrillers, romance, and sifi in the mix

And here I sit watching everything unwind
Why has the world turned it's back on being kind
Take a deep breath these hard times too will pass
Lock yourself in a room and enjoy a book while it lasts

-

I discovered it protruding a bit
between reference volumes in
the library, seemingly amiss.

Stuck fast, I pulled
on it hard, it popped out and
then flew past me,

flapping across the room like some
quasi-winged frisbee-lark, bouncing
off the edge of a bookshelf and

landing on the carpet with it's
feather pages fanned outward,
the quills then slowly relaxed.

I let it sit it there for a moment to
settle from the occurrence, then
picked it up for a closer look,

releasing my breath into Tut's Tomb,
to blow away loose sediment dating
from it’s forgotten inauguration—

Upon reading, it thanked me
for this flight from a
static Perdition—


by
telling me
tales of taradiddles,
page after page to no
end...Taradiddles, page after
page to no end...Page after Page
to no End...telling Me Taradiddles ! Yes !!
Taradiddles !! To No End !! Page After Page to NO
END !... PAgE AFtEr PaGE AFTeR PAGE—TARADIDDLES !!
PAGE AFTER PAGE FROM COVER TO COVER TO NO F—

( thuMP ! )


—leaving me with little doubt
which section of the library
it should have been placed...


s jones
© 2020


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