The Answers Are in the Back of the Book
by Kyjin

every book originates from an idea conceived
by a mastermind erupting with inspiration
who machinates tales of friendship and discovery
pioneers of worlds beyond imagining
romance, chivalry, and lovers unrequited
windows to the horrors of flesh and living

a binding reveals little of its contents
it is the whim of the natural architect
a curtain that covers its naked pages
a vital skin of mortal things it protects

enveloping bodies of different shapes and sizes
that exude a superficial sense of personality
vying for the attention of haphazardly darting eyes
and declaring uniqueness by flaunting its identity

ideas seeded in the eager womb published
life breathed and the immaterial takes form
populating neatly crowded uniform shelves
displacing the dusty aging tombs deformed

books organized and displayed pristine
their reality an illusion of perfection
those blemished or unfit to be seen
stowed and disposed for their conditions

never have their pages turned or chanced to crease
nor its body held with devout passion and sincerity
none will be of acquaintance to its preface
and the story within remain lost to indignity

victories in conquests and mortal defeats
in a complex weave of tragedy and triumphs
stitched by the threads of wants and needs
are fibers that bind the pages of these volumes

twists of fate and misshapen lives
the science of fiction
in art and in war
looking at life through the eyes
of mass deception
betrayed and stalwart

is this a fantasy or
a reality contrived?

a dream everlasting or
our destinies arrived?

of whether we exist or
when we shall expire?

out of first breath or
cast into the fires?

blood-painted walls in caves of the ancients
lost tablets and feathered scroll passages
amber remains rendered in primeval stasis
weathered stone overturns long lost ages

artifacts of time chronicle the journeys of men
as pages of a book turning to the steady breeze
life affords a transient license to experience
cover to cover as one comes another takes leave

chapters written with the blood of our veins
as a pen that flows from one to the next
and the ink seeps deep through the pages
making its mark in sanguinary text

inflamed by the friction of shuffling activity
burned in ignorance for its deviating rites
uprising of ideas in the ashen blaze of civility
as remnants of time take oblivion’s flight

obscurities hide in the edge of popular lies
and in time we fall to its blade of affliction
that cuts from inside until a part of us dies
as tomes hollowed from pestilent consumption

even sands their memories do echo
in each grain a score of life symphonic
weathered by time’s torrential tows
a singularity of a state metamorphic

and men their tales do tell
while one generation rises
another is in descent
one shall advance
and another recede
as waves that grind
the slumbering shores

it is that as one life gives
another one in turn receives

inscribing in the stars
an account of its journey
while waiting to be reborn
in the ocean of eternity

every story that begins inevitably must end
as fleeting pages turn and motions of day ceases
when the binds of our coils become unfettered
then pressure surrenders and finally releases

existence is a volume of blank pages
recording knowledge of the experience
conceived, written, and published
between the covers of flesh and substance
wherein its characters are of our creation
events unwind as of our consequence
and the author has written himself in us

this book of life is checked out most often
and returned just as frequent
because in it the answers will lend
most of which are at the end

Leave a Comment