The Reader (a poem)
His empty eyes fix to the page
Pouring over the words of elegant superiors
Enticed by the musical motion of the lyrics
Carefully chosen and placed
Fingers brush the edges of the book
Caressing gently the binding of somehing,
This thing, so lovely, so awe-inspiring
Not wanting the music to
The words to run out,
The poet to cease,
Writing, telling us how the world is
We cannot see it on our own.
It takes an artist.
It requires a dynamic our creative souls lack
The paint, the pen, the words,