MoP, Day 25

O monograph
your tactile beauty;
embossed script
on a hard, regal cover

mixes with your provocative scent
ink, paper
the faintest trace of musty mould

a playground in your brittle pages
brought to life by blots of letters
spewed out and arranged
by mad magic in an author’s head

if i hold you to my ear
i hear the echoes of a thousand readers before me
their tears and laughter preserved
encased forever in borrowed words

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