Take this job, they said…

It'll give you purpose, He said…

That's the problem, though. It did.

He was right. He's always right,

And everyone knows it.

There's so much meaning,

Almost too much of it,

In every hide-bound volume of

Innumerable pages that snap like dead twigs

Or crumble to sand when they're turned.

Most of it's in the ink.

Pearl-strings of letters, row by row,

Bleeding words together and onto

The pages behind them; the plots

Are so predictable. They're all alike.

Always with light vs dark;

They're both equally blinding.

"There were once two brothers…"

Why not seven? Why not cousins, or strangers?

And does everyone really want the girl?

Nothing was ever original, or ever will be.

The Author knows of – thought of –

Every last bit of it before we were thoughts.

And really, that's all we are…

Thoughts that can be changed, that can die.

Some though are pleasant, flowing, memorable.

Others run off the page, ruining the neat margins.

A few break the quills, spilling ink and erasing themselves.

Several never make it onto the page at all.

And then there are those that shouldn't be thought.