untitled piece

I've been scribbling in my journal lately and since I haven't had too much time in the past few days to blog much I thought I'd jot down one piece from today:

reading
can sometimes
feel like stealing
stealing away
as if to have
some secret affair
for the love
of books

how many have been
swept away
to magical places
through this
strange love?

those so desperate
to lose themselves
in time
stealing moments
through dried ink
on a page
lent by hands
who are now dust

on bookshelves
still-life fruit awaits
to ripen in the sun
of imagination
golden

piling high as if to
represent infinity

the lover awaits the dreamer