That
study which had
late become my
home
Was mostly peaceful,
counting out those times
She visited to
chide me: "In what
tome
Can you
descry life's secrets most
sublime?
What of the nature of reality
Will come to light these nights you
scrutinize
A copy of a
poor facsimile
Of what out there -- inside us -- truly lies?
These books were once a forest, under which
You dwelt on
characters more ably
drawn;
If this their home must be
as dark as pitch,
Still you can venture out
beneath the dawn.
But be no longer burdened by their
heft:
It is but
words."
She spoke these words and
left.
July 6, 2008.