We swallow our pride, and follow the lines
Word by word, we coward and hide
These pages are brittle and spines broke
Fire plauges thoughts as ears bellow smoke.
We listen not to what we are told,
The stories grown old and this hand now folds.
The card like chapters, so crisp and cold
Fine lines wither faces and the stories they hold . .
But this gentle fine print is of a different kind,
an elegant find, saying what burns in its minds
arsonist dreams, that are without fines
a delightful crime for the eldest writer inside
writes what he thinks and thinks that he’s right
all night he types till the sky births light
he needs to relax, kick back before life kicks back
and snaps the straps of his last grasp at sanity
commotion, calamity, in all vanity,
the fine lines on there faces printed so clear
they are all here, cause they arent all there.
