She reads people like books.
Tomes bound in vellumed skin.
Transcribed in blood, and sweat, and tears;
Masterworks of accruing years.
Some were surprisingly, painfully short;
Superficial or collapsing mid sentence.
Others were extensive fulminations,
Verbosity obese with it’s own orations.
Fantasies and fictions delighted her,
Dreamt up by fever’d brows;
Terpsichorean tales, delivered over wine,
Buried truths, with intertwined.
All were scanned and critiqued.
Some discarded as a bad read.
She would come to feature in other pages
Until written out for fairer faces.
Then one day she met a man
Who she could not translate,
And she realised she would have to learn a new tongue.
Tentatively she spoke; she wrote like a child again.
Her own words came out mangled.
She could no longer make the chapters marry,
Meaning became formless, in-cohesive locution.
Expression perished in it’s own execution.
So she’s still learning
To read, again.
One Comment Add yours
That’s a really lovely poem. It really struck a cord.
Sent from my iPad
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