Holy Books

Long curves stretched out, pen in hand, pensive gaze,
feet twitch in absorption the raw light portrays
your spider-scrawl trailing over the pages.

Sudden movement, a cigarette needed to spur,
deft fingers mechanical mould the brown fibre
to a thin cylinder of white rice-paper.

The room becomes stuffy as blue haze rises
your sharp suck of intaken breath surprises
the silence and the gentle brush 
of pages turning, the quiet rush 

of the mind in its churning, your 
thoughts' force marked by the 
tap-tap-tap of your pen on the floor.
Collected Works
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