The Page, The Word

A spine flexes, crackling as it opens

Staccato breaks from head to tail

Fore-edge bowing outward to dusty heavens above

Swirling upward in indispensable grimy vortexes

Dusty motes dancing, dancing

Bobbing, vacillating on the swell

Breaking its back in peaks and valleys

The wear of love and time

Belying its ultimate death.

The timber corpse lies propped

Upon the thigh

Naked and bare

As the flesh it kisses,

Pornographic its consumption by the one

Devoured in their hunger everlasting,

More await aside

Half consumed, then set separately

Their meaning to be digested in full

Before the feast begins again.

The passion is the dream of the scribe

Their breath

Their mana,

Gods inhabit their worlds

Inconceivable realms within the quill

The pen, the key;

Unsealed, they become with the gaze

Moving where before, they were still

Universes form the orb and mind in tandem

Coalescing into the actual, the tactile,

The real.