Ode to Old Books (Poem)


-When white pages transition to a toasted amber,
my imagination is provoked to frolic freely
fretting not of limitations.

-I especially gush with glee at the sight of paper and hardbacks older than me.

-I've learned over time books desire to be weathered, tattered, and scattered amongst a plethora of finger prints, softly reciting lips, and scanning eyes. 
-Stains of coffee, Earl Grey, or Cabernet are ones they see as tattoos doing justice to their existence--ones they can boast about on their thrown shelf to any onlooker of how frequently people felt compelled to pear upon their leafy glory. 

-The day their collective, pungent fragrance of scented, spine-rooted leaves or when their oozing, saturating energy of countless, preserved and non-perishable experiences of mankind doesn't awaken a gluttony for knowledge in my core, I plead with you to question my alias. 
-When this aroma and aura first flirted with me at the foot of a bookstore's entrance, it was love at first word. 

-They're hieroglyphic ambassadors of the souls who bore them, whether here or transitioned, and, simultaneously, are the proud graffiti-bearers, of those those made time to examine.

-When I had the privilege of coming across pink and blue neon highlights, unhurried underlines, and frantic footnotes--ones no one could possibly know how old--my heart smiles.
-For, this is the epitome of mankind's excellence old books inspire: a random soul re-gifting these time-proof, leafy, enlightenment hymns back into the pool of knowledge, for they saw it so valuable, they longed for others to drink, too. 

-Elder books, ones proud of their dust coating and manila interior, long solely not for you to know the story of their makers but also want the prestige of a consistent pedigree of profoundly influencing readers before you, by bearing it's flesh to any utensil you dare throw upon it.

From the Soul,    

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