Sometimes I sit silently.
I let the last words sift and settle,
My mind whispering to itself:
Be still. This is no time to think.
I close my eyes and let the book sink
Deeper into my consciousness
That mere words could dig.
The book begins to speak to the others
Its protagonist begins to blur with another.
The Stranger and the Fireman bend to the same intent
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: creativity,reading,writing