all those books
they stretch across a wall
a bookshelf filled with all sorts of things
all those books
I’ve never seen you read
maybe you’re a bibliophile, maybe
all those books
they tell a different tale
a ripping yarn of discovery
all those books
they screech of your desire
to make people believe you’re well read
all those books
they’re just paper and ink
if you don’t read them they are just food without thought
all those books
they’ll bury you with
lest a funereal pyre of unsaid words dissolve