Pages turn, and spines are bent
To fold comfortably in the hand
Bound together into chapters
And seamed into place
A book has a start and an end
All in a total sense, from one mystery to the next
But the pages of my heart hold an archive of scrolls
Manuscripts far too fragile to be bent
Years of chronicles and fables bound into stories
Holding secret pains
Parchments of a soft flesh-like kind
Written in dribs and drabs
Incomplete
Pages fall loosely, splitting at the seams
Chapters in scribbles in a cute mad-like disarray
There seems to be no plot, just an occurrence of events
Making no sense… but making total sense
The writing appears so colourful, decorated with dainty doodlings so delicately drawn around coffee stain rings
And bits of dog fur caught at the corner of the doggie-eared pages
In some chapters, teardrops blot out the ink
But the stories appear to be all safe in a merry circus tent where words and emotions are trapezing through the air
As the pages turn, the craziness takes an unexpected twist
Somewhere buried under years of old dusty webs
Lie a broken tale
As if the words were furrowed into the pages
So deep that they appear to bleed
Like a knife to the bone, they were brutally gored out
They look sad and stripped
Stripped from their magic and fantasy
They drag on like this for page after page
Making you want to dive right in and rescue them all
The read is slow and long suffering
Suffocating and entrapping
But as the pages turn once more
Somewhere in the middle of the read
The mood changes yet again
This time, it is as if the words are humming a tune
They miraculously string themselves together
Like ballerinas tiptoeing daintily across a stage
Dancing between the line’s locking arms
The phrases begin to prance
Swaying like poetry
Their mysteries are revealed
As the earlier chapters fade away
They huddle together like daisies in the morning dew
They spring forward and beam
The words take their bow and sing
Until the next chapter, then
As the book’s not finished yet