Bookmark
Once there was a boy,
And he liked to read.
To be taken into another world made by someone else,
Just like our world, where the author is God.
And picture books,
Turned to chapter books,
With few illustrations and bigger words.
And he used a green strip of paper for a bookmark.
And the chapter books,
Turned to novels.
The only picture on the cover.
And he used a corner off his homework for a bookmark.
And the novels
Turned to textbooks.
With no pictures, and complicated words.
And he used a prophylactic wrapper for a bookmark.
And the textbooks turned to magazines – dwindling back down the reading level,
Which he could never seemed to finish.
He fell asleep – passed out – with them on his bare chest,
And he used his smoldering joint as a bookmark.
And the magazines,
Turned to a folded note.
His blood the only color on the outside – dripped by mistake.
And he became the author, the God;
Begging someone to find his book.
And he used his soiled penknife,
As the bookmark.
- White-Hayate
 The-Devils-Night-Out · Sun Aug 05, 2007 @ 04:59am · 0 Comments |
