Deep ebony bookshelves that hold an infinity of almost everything, a personal library of my memory
My eyes are layers; easy and brown like parchment, or leather of a binding thong
Layers of a books with pages so black with ink, the words drip onto my tongue
And from my tongue they flow into the ears of anyone who reads them with their ears
Anyone who listens to each curve and mark my pen etched into the paper loitered with old tear stains and crinkles from perplexed frustration
The detailed and vivid wording draws in only those patient enough to touch the pages with careful fingers
My eyes are like a story, a literary work that the best scribes and scholars could not decipher
Fold back a new chapter to get deeper into the tale; in the point of view of my character
Mistakes often scribbled out with the twisted conscience deep within my mind
Not printed or typed perfectly, not edited so that no one would ever not guess the flaws
No spellcheck; pure from the heart, from the soul, from me
Even without the spoken tones of each letter you could still read those layers
Often not, do some get to read
At some points I publish those words, that ink; authors addition
And at some point, the pages become combined and locked into a diary of my private thoughts
Some times the pages are scattered among me, and some times there are no pages, and no ink, and no words to be written
But my library is empty, and dust collects the shelves and spines of the books
The floors are unscuffed by the shoes of the wandering, and my eyes have not enough experience to fill even one shelf
So I will wait, my eyes and their tales of to be continued's
And we will see who will come along to read the layers of the book I labeled myself
