Natural Form of Books

In my hands, I hold trees.

What once stood in forests

somewhere unknown,

now reduced to thin wisps

which I cradle and cherish.

The bark from a mighty oak is stripped

and the life is savagely cut

to hold these pages littered with markings; words.

This ensures that the leaves from earth won’t regrow,

because their base is the structure of my book.

But these entities speak the language of

nature, acceptance, and something foreign;

a welcomed reality.

The pining to possess more is greedy of me, but

the evergreen seeps into me off the pages.

I take their cedar spirits and breathe in life—

of which I’ve lived many.

Tuesday, I’m a greaser trying to survive and grow up.

Wednesday, a lover thrown through time

destined to always meet the same person.

But come Thursday,

a Knight, wearing red on the battlefield and

fighting alongside King Arthur.

The clanging of sword on shield rings all around but

I, alone, hear the sound of an ax chopping through wood,

A true sacrifice for the unworthy.