Highs of a Book: A Poem

You’re nothing but the mushed, crushed pulp
of bloated, water-logged trees past help,
Pressed into thin sheaves that whinge and yelp,
Black barnacle spreading on it like kelp.

Nought but sheets of paper, ink bled through-
A potent drug of highs and torment. (Why aren’t you taboo?)
Causing rich, drawn-out hallucinations untrue.
So vivid and lifelike- no wonder I’m addicted to you!

It’s all a matter of fickle, fickle perspective.
Are you degenerative or miraculously corrective?
No doubt you’re sweet, zealously addictive.
There’s nothing I haven’t done under your influence.

You lay so innocuously. Spine languid and stretched.
Mine too as I breathe you, consume your every inch.
To some, you may be wicked, or an inanimate wretch.
But to me you’re pure awe-some-nothing more, nothing less.

You’re awe-some as I flip your fresh and fine front cover,
As I finger past first one and then another chapter.
When I flip the last page and you’re finally over,
You’re still awe-some as you wait for another reader.

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