Fly

I saddled up the black ink,
And didn't even think,
As I jumped on its back,
And rode those words so black,
Soaring up so high,
Into a novelist's tan paged sky,
We flit from left to right,
As it showed me the dark and the light,
A world of colors and one in black and white,
It let the stars burn in my hand,
And know the pain of drowning in quicksand,
But in it all,
We flew and didn't fall,
Like the Icarus one once wrote,
So instead we just float,
Along the valleys and mountains,
Of the black curls of a pen,
And no wonder a book has two flaps,
Attached to that spiny binding gap,
As I desperately need to cling,
To the book's gliding wings.
 
-anna sluder


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