He always thought that
could be built as essays (unabridged).
That if he listened — after-
wards he’d be allowed to speak his mind.
“It’s like crossing ridges —
once you reach the highest point it’s downhill
to the valley below”
But timeslots slips; the aged librarian
and builds his thesis,
breath by breath,
strong with reason — walled with words
juxtaposed to synthesis;
“My mouth is filled with pebbles”.
He believes that chasms of treason
can be closed
if just once
he’d be allowed to speak his mind.
He lights a candle. Sighs.
Cause bridges crumble and his pens run dry.
the aged librarian just makes sense in
Today Lillian prompts us to write poetry on bridges at dVerse. My choice was to continue a series on the aged librarian and taking a more metaphoric approach on the bridge. But the prompt is open to all kind of bridges. Join us at 9 PM CET when pub opens.
January 10, 2017