Inside The Library
one may accuse
a man reading a pile of books
of hiding away
from the touch of a lover
those fragile hands
not equated with the rough
feel of a page of
a book,
one may negate
his search as something
unnecessary
which should have better
be spent in the fields
of strawberries
and the stretch of green grass
and the tall lines of trees
in that cool green forest
but this man
does not sleep too
finding the words
in fact eating some of the
letters and
god forbids
now drinking some of
the dreary moisture
from the nooks
breathing the emptiness of
the shadows of the
room
till night.
he is on one hand
also a shape of sacrifice
a monument of greatness
a god
of those cockroaches
who by time shall
understand all these
quivers
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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