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Library

To help the books that I am myself

I put the pieces on my inner shelf

arrange them nicely and organize

so they‘re neatly placed by date and size


Run them over with critical eyes

plaster their pages with analytical whys

take them out, one by one

and wonder, to better them, what could be done


The covers more sturdy, the spines robust

the forms of these books I could adjust

the sentences could be much more concise

and some of the books, well they must be lies


The printer ink has faded in places

and in some books, my finger traces

words that I can‘t read anymore

we‘ll shut those behind the backrooms door


The syntax could be optimized

and there‘s far too much rambling of sunset skies

another one will probably bore you

wait, I‘ll shorten the description for you


I rewrite the stories, letter by letter

hope that someday they‘ll all be better

and fit the spots they have on the shelf

there‘ll be no more mistakes inside myself


But for every book I correct I just see

another error-filled one thats waiting for me

and never will I ever have time to read

those books about the life I lead


At the break of day and in evenings shade

in midst of the bulwark of books I laid

in front of me so they can be perfected

I lost count of which ones I had corrected


As soon as one stroke of my pen is done

I assure you, there will be another one

that waits for me and make me see

another mistake I missed in paragraph three


So in a cold and starlit night

sleep seeps throug, then holds me tight

cradles my tired and shaky hands

sleep, between me and my books it stands


As I wake, i take up where I stopped before

my eyes still burn and my muscels are sore

so sleep trickles back in and picks me up

puts to my chapped lips a cooling cup


I awake, and once more, take up a book

but for the first time, really look

and miss the blanks that fill the page

and feel the paper and its age


Slowly red ink disappears

and I see and touch the long-dried tears

on the letters like soul-felt paint

as all the error signs‘ glows grow faint


Coloured like honey on a breakfast table

are the book covers that I labeled

in black and white and wrong and right

the prologue is touched by simmering light


Warm is the feel of a book I hold

and I let myself float in the story it told

I caress the letters and spell them out

the sentences a stormy route


My ears they hear the melody

that as a child, you told me

and by you this time I mean myself

who wrote each and every book on this shelf


When I grow old, a library

might be what my eyes will see

I hope that they will tenderly smile

and pick up a book once in a while


And sit there underneath the hearth

and read of stories that are worth

writing even if there‘s a mistake

writing for the story‘s sake

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