Papyrus

A poem about poems, a poem about books.

The withered planes 

of aged papyrus 

read like shallow pools 

of cryptic braille.

Alleviating the curiosity 

of tentative fingertips, 

bringing history 

to budding flesh.

Oil paintings with 

grease-splotch ink smudges, 

blending twelve-point font 

into navy ocean depths.

Palms melting, 

bleeding present into past,

The synthesis of mortal hands 

and the timeless archive.

Reviews

[The Twin Arenas]

this piece is thick. literature can swallow you like tar, and you captured that aspect of it.

[I Am Svetlana]

I really love the imagery and history you put into this. So beautiful! Books are such powerful instruments. I don't know what I would do without one...

[Misery]

Your major and your minor reveal themselves in the patient lines of this poem.
Wonderful inspiration, dear poet.

[Jamie Wilkinson]

Thank you very much! ^_^

[Misery]

You are very welcome.