A few pages a day, they say,
That's how long it took to process
The Bible in times before the printing press.
Pray what about their poets?
Did they scribble into oblivion frantic lines?
Cryptic windows Into everyday
glories or mundane miseries?
Urgently, on cue, from somewhere within,
Write, write, it will be over all too soon,
Rush through all your ruptured thoughts,
Say all you want, before silence returns?
So where are those tomes of love-lorn souls?
Pining for beauty, and a few words to live?
Here there are only people, memories and moods
All printed, bound, mass produced and then, neatly arranged.
In never-looked-at-wings of life's lengthy libraries.
So much to learn, who cares to pine?
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