Books, Books, Books


Her novels hunkered in her creamy hands,
Leather binding caressed her soft membrane.
Carefully entering different lands,
Careful for the dreaming she must sustain.

Hair of sepia spills on the pages,
Black glasses descend to her bridge of bone.
Soft sighs slip, Her wanderlust eyes ageless,
A homemade remedy, her aldactone.

Fantastical hitches of her breath,
Herself curled on the couch, dreams spilled lovers.
Bronze laced mischief, paged corpses of tattooed death,
Hidden by beautiful, artful covers.

Fantasy clashed with her reality,
In a sense the stories chained and set free.

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