This Book Is Bound In Leather And Writ In Blood

 

this book

leather bound

once soft skin cover

now weathered and beaten

into cracked and ancient hide

that smells of cedar wood

 

once tightly bound

now coming apart

at the seams

its pages yellowing with age

some dog-eared

well worn

with a tracing finger

on the memories

others

stuck together

with sweat and tears

and blood and semen

that scream

as you prise them apart

 

pencil notes

in the margin

explaining some

of the unexplainable

pain and sadness

 

this page

the last

until a new one is born

on a hopeful tomorrow

 

the ink

black as midnight thoughts

and the white spaces

between the words

as important

as the marks upon it

 

in the crease

the spine

where page meets binding

grains of sand

sea water splashes

soft strands of hair

the faint tang of alcohol

 

some stumbling comments

in prologue

on how he came to be here

and an epilogue

an afterword

that hints

at what he leaves behind

 

the ancient nib

scratches a life

accentuates a mood

slaughters a thought

digging and scraping

a brief history

of one man

one place in time

one sun

with all the crazy planets

orbiting for warmth

 

and when the story

ebbs away

and the book is closed

it is taken to a library

of countless volumes

each preserved

 

and whether hero

or villain

happy or sad

comedic or tragic

it sits and gathers dust

like all the other volumes

gone before

and all those

yet to come