A pause mid busy breathings,
or quiescent midnight immensity,
time after time, pages turned slow.
A diplomatic justice to them,
as though eternal,stories are fragile,
and their birth is cautious.
Drawn were ample expanse hitherto,
tremored along yellow maplitho,
lived or died uprightly,
in dreams utopian or states dystopian,
as logic of words demanded.
Lest be said of the comfort, they showered,
likely as of in mother’s lap
which all of is known as lines of
stories or poems or plays.
Within the sentences hung to neologism,
the smell prevailed as Poe’s Raven,
or freezed as Caesar’s tableaux.
Drenching the time and space of entity obscure,
sanguine thoughts sunk in,
let duty they did, be guesswork.
In vicious tempest or tendor breeze,
pages turned slowly, and was read encore.
Page after page, truncheon ideas
cloaked amid lines, rised.
Delirium barked in, ramming
the chastity of silence, there until.
Riveted in strident stanzas,
rhymes were armours, held up.
The hushes of phrases, a revolution.
And those instants, wars fought bravely,
love stirred fervidly,
warmth won in dropped tears,
For inevitable cause, books may finish.
But way up from start to end,
is to begin again,
to read lines read before,
but a story, different.