He took down the slim-line tale of hearts
half-patched plastic,
bent edges to mark pages
caught by coffee stains
and dots and dashes of unknown origins-
like misprints on the page
they trick the eye making sense of them,
drawing away attention away, away from
the beautiful words,
that he restored every five years.
he took down the book, on dreams, of light
and night, on awakening, a being loved.
He took down the book that night, gave it
a new jacket and ironed each page and tried his
best to clean it, and as he worked along
the words many eyes had wandered.
At morning he took the book to its shelf, he'd miss it,
five more years, but, joy tonight, he'd dream her bonny face
by his, she who could read him like a book.
A pristine volume
and always worth a look.
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ah yes, like a book, and previously the quote about the devils from hell camping in your house, not finding hell's arrangements quite suitable, the terms antiquated and the language ah the language, its not english, time for updating terms for devils even they after all, deserve a better deal and brown bread for their sandwiches. Liked the not quick enough response to what would you like from spain, the deeds of a villa. ah well you have a shower now and one day soon will get used to it i'm sure xxx
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