Chapters read, unread, understood, or missed
Are not stabbed with tags, marks, and dried flowers
Nor are the crease of pages folded to leave a forever longing
I seldom start from where I left and prefer random pages
I do not dig into books to smell their fragrant auras
Nor do I hold the fingers of authors, dragging them to a walk
I wait for mental energies to ignite
Deflecting them into a pillow side wandering by midnight
I don't write my name on books I read
Neither do I protect them with a cover
Nor divide them into library classifications
I embrace only those, free from slavery to protos
I do not quote from them
Nor underline passages I feel are important
or google search for meanings of complications felt, nor research
A vagabond I do not carry our meetings beyond a thought
They often rust, retire and crumble
Or in long drives spill fumes and develop snags
Breaking journeys through seasons and lyre
Books don't belong they kiss & go
Beautifully written.... It resonates my very being... This reckless abandon is what energises me, this spontaneity is the essence of our being... And books are always a pleasure, not a ring to paraphrase, cram up or philosophise, they are pure enchantment and healers to people like us... beautiful, every word written above is precious and soul stirring
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