Inspiration in Print

Books tell the time-passages

of my Life. My littler

years are marked by young

novellas, stories stated by adventurers.

(An author, of course, is a course-charter,

an explorer; their plots travel

among dark days, stormy

nights.)

Books inspire me, begin to fill

my mind with not my memories.

Bibles of poison would light pyres

with my soul soaring above.

Stories that never ended sang

and stole me far, stung and prevailed

over my senses, like the slick promises

of Ygramul’s venom, granting hope

to the ensnared, an escape to the snatched.

I am entwined with the trials of Fantastica.

I am a reveur, red scarf and violet

dreams dancing and dazzling my eyes

with words describing creative wonder.

Books are a love letter to life,

to the brilliance before, to the fortunes of after.

They’re a response to inaudible remonstrance:

a defiant protest to the provocation of days—

a firm oath before all—

Posterity shall know the names of the

beings who wrote the books that mark

the time-passages of their lives.