Do you know that smell that some books have?
The smell that takes you straight into the world in the ink?
Something between smoke and wood chips?
The smell of what music would smell like?
That smell the one of the farthest back shelf in the library?
The one where it smells like the hands of those who’ve loved it?
Do you know that smell that some books have?
The one that can take you anywhere in the world?
Any time, anyplace, with any person, of any race?
The smell of fresh printers ink and ancient paper?
Do you know that smell?

Reality and reverie
The eternal battle of soul and body
The truth versus the fantasy

The endless reverie
Of what we want to be
The platonic conception of originality

The ceaslessness of reality
The crushing of hopes for what could be
The harsh subject in entirety

love
does not lie
love
taught
us
how to fly
love
fill
the sky
with
our wings

what
blooms
a
canary yellow
when
the
heart is
a
long spring

words all have their roots
ped = foot
saurus = dinosaur
photo = light

just like my love for you has roots
or like a tree has roots

and all these things are infinite

the power of language
the power of nature
and
the power of love

let me dissolve in your ocean
blue
somewhere, someone
belongs
where waves crash
the same
and the tide doesn't mind
gentle, now
this movement touches
bare skin
at the shoreline,
she dances too often
tracing footprints in sand
before he washes hers
away
leaving but a seashell
behind
a lonely goodbye,
and a smile to drown
beneath
"lady in blue"

you and I,
burn in moonlight
darkling skies of a devil's sleep
a lust for love, attend the desire
for the flame is fiercer
beneath...

I am alone, beginning to realize
truth and death
are preferred, than living in
between the spaces