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The Novel

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  • The Novel

    The Novel

    It’s raining now, the thread that holds the clouds
    Together, ripped right open, it unveils
    A messy tome of scarlet from a shroud
    That tells of things that once were welcome tales

    I find some way to feel, the throbbing of
    My heart which turns like rustling sheets, it turns
    Around and round, a long despairing love
    Of gentle things that makes the eyelids burn

    The pen goes on, it writes of endless things
    Of feasts and songs and wines of innocence
    A world of life complete, the perfect ring
    The whistling of the golden instruments

    Yet fingers cannot catch the memories
    From revels long departed, they must clutch
    The empty air, the silent libraries
    Forgotten books that crumble at the touch

    These passageways are beautiful when wet
    The bricks appear as glass, the houses striped
    With pearls, like those you gave me when we met
    Alas, they melt, collapsing out of sight

    You are no more, a feather from before
    But graves of lives gone by have marking signs
    Some words to constellations unexplored
    Released, the clearest visions of my mind

    I know that years are born and fade away
    And tallest trees to chains of time fall prey
    Behind the walls of covers, I could stay
    I’d stand, I’d watch, I’d count the endless days

    But like all others, this worn tale must end
    It ran its course, another will begin
    To take its place, the gashes it shall mend
    Its thread, a stronger silken strand will spin

    We’ll write a new book now, a new design
    To forge more gold than what the others made
    By piece the bookshelves filled again will shine
    For summer’s riding fast in hollow glade

    And these old wishes we shall set aside
    A dear collection, and when time goes on
    They’ll rest assured that they once lived with pride
    And in the end, this novel shall be gone