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Like Books

We came into this world by an act of ingenuity,

In full cuckoldry of the human imagination.

We exist in a journey that’s about to be finished

At the end of which

Our pages grow marigold,

All tarnished,

Unvarnished and old.

And when we grow frail

We tear apart,

Our story has been told

Too many times.

Without a margin

We no longer

Have any means

Of support.

A spine that isn’t anymore.

Again and again

We’ve been read,

Until silence

Takes possession of

Our words.

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