The End of a Book

Upon on a journey thus embarked

The reader wends his way.

And by the pages dimly marked

Learns what heroes say.

His eyes, like numb undying orbs

And blind to works and words,

Yet by their echoing, absorbs,

The master’s hidden worlds.

And melancholy undermined

By letters proud cacophonies,

He dances to the silent chimes

Of dime store words like symphonies.

But for those, now more estranged,

Who wish the joy of sorrow,

Partake of tragedies untamed

And weep for all tomorrows.

For like a child’s holiday

He feasted overmuch…

Consuming all the joys today

In one unholy touch.

With childish naiveties

He thumbs the pages past.

And rends the yarn, so gracesslessly,

And done, the die is cast.

He lays to rest the epilogue

Like manuscripted eulogies.

With feelings of an anti-logue,

Plucks orchids for apologies.

And there upon the holy ground

The sweetest scents array

The gilded cover, leather bound,

With funeral bouquets.

For such bouquets are gardens grown

In irrigated fields.

And on the pages letters sown

And words will be their yields.

And all the toiling hours spent

The author sheds his tears.

While blooming from this malcontent

The flowers that he fears.

The briny tears upon the page

Sprinkled there like dew.

Are merely words from Age to age

But never after new.

And never more those pages turn

Unfolding as before.

But always in the mind they burn

And will forever more.