Hearken ye ol’ square thing––
spine broke in two; vellum
creased, torn an’ yellowing;
gossamer locks tawny

an’ twined, poking from betwixt
mellowed sheets
till the uncoiled skein
a slim marker becomes.

Yer dusty shroud an’ stale musk
like a second skin are.
Gusty gales splash across
yer timeworn hide, scatter

grains of bleached sand,
unfurl ancient
pages in a fierce
swirl of crackling parchment.

Spidery script
runs along the sheets––
strange designs, ciphered to
ward against wicked sight.

Hid from the world but
the world ye are––
a timeless portal
of woven script

through inky infinity
to shores grim or merry,
seas stormy or calm. So, ol’
Book, I charge ye: yer mantle

an’ marker cast
aside. Ol’ Book, I beg
ye . . . to perilous lands yonder
take me.

Copyright © 2013 Elliot Silverberg. All rights reserved.