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And I disappeared back into the books,
Whirling in a seamless stream of context,
By whose scarlet blood I assumed some looks,
Forevermore ready for what was next.

From this moment on I could not assume,
That what I had become was not a dream,
That the changing nature of words illume,
The source of who I am is but a meme.

With eyes embedded in a paragraph,
I myself could no longer recognize,
A better part of me was not my half,
The other one a stranger full of lies.

Fading fast I reached to grab another,
From the shelf fell frozen tomes to learn from,
Pointing to the facts of Nature’s mother,
I sang the world and all its mighty sum.

The most remarkable sonnets came next,
Penned on the soaring wings of bated breath,
To earth I fell in heavy tears perplexed,
By he whose strophes touched Elizabeth.

As if the universe remained untold,
Came the stinging ray Eichmann learned to fear,
She cried to me to never let unfold,
Better to die, then learning not to hear.

In eternal submission drifting down,
Spinning like a mind, orbit less and free,
To play the role of every verb and noun,
Is to become the knowledge of the tree.

Wrestling against the black charm of foresight,
An alliance to forge future and past,
I lost the quill of quality to write,
The books, their charms to this man did outlast.

A finger trailed the brail along my spine,
When I heard the cry of a voiceless death,
Its last gasp took what was rightfully mine,
The code whose lantern knew my very depth.

Masks, whose pages bear the fruit of fake truths,
A library where doors contain the flood,
Forbearance by written hand always smooths,
The frantic chore of writers chewing cud.
 
The books it seems can but only redeem,
The clueless laws whose tropes are value,
By whose magic hand what appears does seem,
To erase the real from a point of view.

The stanzas of knuckles counting meter,
Homework assignments to only erase,
The thirsting pint who defends the liter,
A snake whose trail one can forever trace.

The words are all there, just like you and I,
Let them form and sculpt who you really are,
Beware though friend of being led to high,
The sun may burn the spirit of your star


———


By Jornjorn.  June 10th 2014.  

Written as an exercise to find my way back into the writer’s “zone”.  As always I 
need books to set the process going.  The books open pathways, roles, masks, 
figures, voices.  However they come with a price.  Struggling with these ideas of 
loss and gain in the creative process.  Kind of messy conceptual transitions.  Fun 
to play though.
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