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 fingerprints, 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 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 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,    

Published works: https://amzn.to/3gA4Dh3

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