Books

Rather than calling them all my own
I say my hair stops where they begin.
I adopt their thoughts apologetically,
Finding horrid similes in their pages.

I have felt everything before, deja vu.
Rather,I was something somewhere
In their metaphors I actually became .
I find their world so much predictable.

I keep pages unoccupied by thoughts,
Their spines creaking by many nights,
Their dust full of my future after-light
Like powdered clay pot I will become.

I imagine silver fish through the pages
Like my metaphor maggots for future,
Or tiny water jets from the pot’s holes,
Metaphors for a life passing my holes.

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