I would never desecrate a book for art
for though a picture may reveal a thousand words
a few thousand more remain stagnant
ready to unleash their chains
ready to break free
to scream into the empty spaces
that leave us lethargic
I want words to dangle in my brain
so I can pluck them in desperate moments
either to set them free
or swallow them
to nourish my dormant veins
and set my skin on fire
I want to smell the parchment
when I hunger for
the salty sea
or planets with crimson trees
To feel its rigid spine
when I curl up in a chair
comforting my dark and lonely nights
They take me to chimeric places
no colored canvas
or chiseled quire could

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