I sit in a room
Where my future
Is not
Where my future
Is in a book
White spine black letters
Can I stop now
Please
I would like to read that book
Until the end of time
But a story cannot be told
Only lived
I am just a name
Not a story
Maybe not even that
Not a sound
Not a letter
Nothing
Something
Quite terrible
Perhaps the last page was burnt
Many times ago
The ash and wax
Stick to sound
To letters
Insensible
Indecipherable
Misplaced
If I choose the lock
I will write a paper key
If I choose the flame
It will never stop
There is no choice
Not really
My feet stand in a flood of words
Shuffled up like bilge
Picking
So hard picking out
Something new
That book cannot be left in the room
On the shelf
It moves
Behind me
Unknown
Familiar
Already told.
