Member-only story
Not as my pocket dwelling device
Raging like hungry fire;
Devoid of birthday notifications,
Online banking access,
Inbox responses pending,
Group chats —
Books lay still, inviting stillness
Blessedly uninsistent.
They are only one thing,
Nothing more, nothing less.
Not everything, incessant.
The magic of books is
The opportunity to travel anywhere,
Discover anything,
Undergo alchemical transmutation.
Not merely to step into another’s mind;
To actually become that person for a time.
Such a treasure is powerful beyond measure
Well-contained by the page
To prevent from overwhelming and overrunning our senses.
Books are silenced by darkness
Limited by space.
Access to everything at once
Assassinates presence
Annihilates contentment.
