Souls

He is always

asking questions,

prying connections from our heads—

what we read,

to him,

is paramount.

Read aloud,

once more

(he says it is for us)

but I see his eyes

close,

his mouth

murmur,

tasting with reverence

what we chew all

too quickly

and swallow.

Dissatisfied with our haste,

he sets out again,

this time, on his own.

More weight on his tongue,

gravel in his throat—

he holds the words

in his mouth

as if they were gold.

And how he reels in it.

Chin to his chest,

bowing to the weight

of past musings

of Those far beyond him.

The pages shadow his face

from below,

drawing him down

to the darkling pools that fill him.

And I watch his eyes flicker madly.

I can see his heart beating in them.

And taking in

his uneven brow,

one white flash cast upon his youth—

I wonder:

how it must feel to be

completed only

by years never again

to be touched,

curled up in inked pages—

musty, soiled, dead.