My Friend Who Smells Books


I once had a friend who liked smelling books
The age, the plot, are not seen by mere looks
The legacy of those previously
Holding and folding, mischievously
Is not known 'til experience concedes
Is not shown except with old factories
Pressed papers, stamped titles, and binding
Meaning heeding, deeply, needing finding

Where is the beauty in narrative found?
With climax, nouns, when ups and downs abound?
In ink stained canvas? Corners bent, worn
Those with noses in books, being reborn

Feeling words in all your crannies and nooks
I once had a friend who liked smelling books

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