I sleep on a bed of books,
my body cradled
with words and deeds,
bled into the fabric of time.
They support my limbs,
they hold my head,
screaming in the silence,
keeping me afloat.
At night I wait,
for the tomes to seep into me,
slicing inside like
purple neon lasers.
I wish to wake
to a thousand jubilee bells,
ringing from my fingers
onto fresh white acres.
These friends of mine,
make friends themselves,
and more and more,
join me in the dreaming.
My pillow a thousand pages,
my blanket a dedication,
I wait for the dark,
to sleep on a bed of books.
Wordland 