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Bookstores are sacred places:
cemeteries for words,
altars for ideas.
The putrefying corpses
of long-dead writers.
The ink won’t turn
your fingers black.

Is it bad, then,
that I find that stench
much more pleasant
than my own vain scribblings?
The dust of my own thoughts,
ink still wet and sticky on the page.
Useless jotting
in the Face of the masters.

April 26, 2011 | Categories: Poetry | Tags: authors, books, bookstore, ink, self-conscious, writers, writing | 1 Comment »