The Paper Gateway
The margin is a border I cross without shoes,
Leaving the room and its tethered demands.
The ink is a liquid I cannot refuse,
Spilling its secrets all over my hands.
The text is a blueprint for dreams built of lead,
Where towers of vowels scrape the roof of the mind.
The world in the window is quiet and dead,
Compared to the riot of life that I find.
Minutes are ghosts that the sentences kill-
They vanish in rhythms of commas and sighs.
The pulse of the story is perfectly still,
Until it is caught in the trap of my eyes.
When the cover is closed and the ink goes to sleep,
The room is too heavy, the silence too wide.
For I am a vessel the page couldn't keep,
Carrying scars of the wonders inside.