Bookman



Death does not scare me; 
It looks like the cover of a book - 
I have ripped out it’s last page for fear of 
It ending. I may not 
 
Read that loose penultimate leaf. Yet nobody but I 
Is permitted to design it: this last shard left 
Holds my dying breath, and the words 
 
words words 
words 
 
I have left behind riddle the spine 
Until it is hollowed up. On some cement shelf; 
It’s fondled, daily, by an old man with a cane 
With questions about 
 
Who where what and when 
To pass the time of his own 
 
Crippled and unending pages. 



it ain’t over till it’s over
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