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Poem

She walks among books as if they are flowers – 
Picking the dust from their parched leaves 
like the busy bumblebee seeking for pollen. 

Breathless – She caress the patchy pages
to feel their scent – her favored perfume, 
and the texture of their numbered petals. 

She hears the song – The Silence- with glee,
evading the moonlight in her daily course – 
No bird sings in her hallowed garden. 

No poets praise her unchanging beauty – 
but all poems she takes to herself, 
reigning lonely and terrible in her Helicon.

She is never lost but she never leaves – 
Nor greets any visitor with her pale hello, 
absently wandering near her chilly stroke. 

The seedbed is sterile, yet she still rejoices – 
Winter never leaves, Winter never arrives, 
her flowers still colorful as they never were. 

She dances – her feet barely touch the ground, 
serene –never closing her eyes – not once, 
her fortune clasped closely to her still chest. 

As a confined moth wriggling her wings in a fray
- restless – she unfolds her arms and gazes 
mirrors incapable to reflect her own pale face.  

She walks among books as if they are flowers –
Flipping their pages without rest, without break, 
in deadly splendor after every lonely midnight.

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