Standing end on end in graveyards,

The near dead adorn their resting place

with words, with their sentence

of death inscribed

and dated, stamped, remembering the last time

they were thought of

fondly, with fingers quivering

with anticipation, their spines

still erect, still perfect,

but like anything that breathes life,

soon will fade, soon will lose their meaning,

their passion

as younger, more tempting words

are echoed and brushed against

closed dreaming eyes and the smell

of the new and intoxicating

run rampant round the mind,

a fresh look, a modern love,

a pristine older scene

but whose words still resonate

with the scent of amour,

pages turn, they stand silently

and the only sound is the relentless

judging, the raised eyebrow punching

above its weight, the low brow

passing the time, a kind of love,

brutal, consuming, death inducing,

beautiful, beauty, between the covers,

the mutual benefit of having been kissed

by the book.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018