Untitled Poem for Wordle 422

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash.

Written for The Sunday Whirl.


What if I could

Preserve myself between the pages of a book

As one might press a flower, with the wood

Stacked up on top; what if I took

The scribbled sheets

And laid them o’er myself, as if in bed

And tucked myself within the crevice neat

Between the other books I haven’t read;

Then with the stilling of my hands,

Rest dreamless, as an orange cosmos might

Among the sentence-bones and word-strung bands,

A tiny star in a secluded night;

Could I deny

Death’s evil, then, if like a flower pressed

Within the pages of a book, where I could lie

Immortal bloom in an immortal rest?



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