My books stare at me in a dusty derision, their tongues dripping with sarcasm.Books are mortal like parts of our bodies with some dying away before the whole will die.
Alice is inside to a dizzy fall in a rabbit hole but her illustrated frontispiece is gone to wind.Like the front teeth gap in an old -weather face hissing with the harsh winter breeze.
Silver fish swim in the rivers of my books.I let them do so , from years of guilt inside.
Guilty of not having read them.
The Morning is Just a Dream 
Leave a comment