Guilty books

My books stare at me in a dusty derision, their tongues dripping with sarcasm.Books are mortal like parts of our bodies with some dying away before the whole will die.

Alice is inside to a dizzy fall in a rabbit hole but her illustrated frontispiece is gone to wind.Like the front teeth gap in an old -weather face hissing with the harsh winter breeze.

Silver fish swim in the rivers of my books.I let them do so , from years of guilt inside.Guilty of not having read them.


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