Mortality is one ending.
Do books die?
They reach their natural climax and
I'm sad to realize that the books-worth
of characters, who were with me just
one moment ago, are gone. White page,
northern landscape and memories —
the well-trod morphology
of all those exciting memories.
I'm sad to realize that the books-worth
of characters, who were with me just
one moment ago, are gone. White page,
northern landscape and memories —
the well-trod morphology
of all those exciting memories.
2 comments:
This is a beautiful metaphor for the age we are at, where we lose our friends and have only the memories, set in type, cast in stone.
Thank you Annie GYG, (that particular nom de plume brings back some memories) I do some days feel as though I'm dragging around a great weight of past with me.
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