Young Writers Society

29. Fighting-
Sickness, slowly strangling
the pallor from my skin. The light
from my eyes is fading, they say.
I equate it to water
and it drips though my fingers.

30. The Book
Leather-bound covers, dusted and marred
by age and wisdom - every caress of fingers,
gentle and wandering. They're wondering
about a story, a tale, and they flip
through the pages like the years unbeknown.
And they are dragged

feet first into a world so vibrant
it ripples like a still pond in the autumn
under the precinct of a breeze. But it's nothing
substantial to think about. Instead, the tale
flows as a creek to a river to an ocean.
Where blue horizon meets blue horizon
and the story is endless so they might forget
the real world is waiting.

And while they're gone, time holds its breath.
It's steadying to an exhale, slow and wistful
when they close white against white
(black ink disappearing between the crevices)
and time resumes.
As if the world is reawakened from a slumber,
they breathe and they move
and the world moves with them.

They lay their fingers against curling leather bound
into a rigid backbone, an unyielding spine
of wisdom and knowledge. The dust
settles. The world
is remembered but not
for long