You walk into the room; you look
at the book patiently awaiting your arrival.
Intrigued,
something makes you look again.
Thoughts lead to analysis as you
coerce the delicate pages;
A crease folds in your forehead as you
manipulate the impressions of the text.
Nothing has ever been so easy to understand,
as though these words were written for you.
I try to close; I try to block the discourse . . .
Too much has been revealed.
But your eyes stare deep into mine as you
meticulously read my soul, written on transparent pages.
Read on,
for I am the book whose pages unravel like language.
As my tears descend, I can hide nothing more.
Read on . . .