Ode to the Novel

The reader as a primal beast.

You thirst

for the completion.

You know

only the clots of ink

will satisfy you.

You grasp.

You crack its spine, relishing

in its dusty, primal scent,

its papery flesh.

Literature spills

over your hands, congealed

already. You eat.

Gorged on imagination,

you drain the dregs,

bittersweet.

You fold away

the words, saving

some for later.

You stroke it,

inject it,

creativity’s creature,

a drug.

The track marks

reach your mind.

Author's Note

What do you think of the structure and flow? Are the line breaks jarring? Please be as harsh as you feel you need to be -- I need criticism!