I may live in the past,
between the pages and pressed daisies,
but the ink is clearer here.
You would have me pluck out my eye,
should it suit your need or whim.
But, blindness is blessed within
the faded cloth covers,
and the crack of a broken spine.
I'll find compassion by
wrapping myself in organic textures,
and breathing the ripened scents,
of decaying pages.
How clear it is in the past!,
I read and I dog-ear.
And scribble in the margins,
that I live for this.