The ghost mirror

The ghost mirror

 

A shadow of a man

Ghost like, hallow

Awaiting tomorrow

Tomorrow. Tomorrow

 

The morn is gone

The sand dune is blown

Into the sockets

Of his eyes.

 

A life he needs to borrow

A life he needs to borrow

To accomplish his mission

His only passion

Not turned into 

The grains of sand.

He needs to deliver

The abolished books

Of past time philosophers

To the book shop.

Spinoza feels dry as

A bone 

Under his boney fingers.

 

So he looks into 

A mirror

The ghost mirror:

The margins smudged with

Sooth.

‘Grant me a life:

Mine own 

So that my legs

Can carry mine bones.’

He begins the rite.

The rite of passage

He learnt during

His youth.

 

He was a dashing youth 

Once.

Suited and tied

Owner of fine books 

Beautifully binded.

His book shop

In the heart of an oasis

Blown into pieces

By the despiser of

The knowledge 

Of the books.

 

He crawled into the desert

With the remaining of his books

In a suitcase.

 

So he  trekked

And trekked into  the desert

Maddened by his misfortune

Hungry, parched

On months on end.

Then he remembered

About this makeshift

Bookshop

On the edge of the oasis

Disguised as a hookah 

Shop.

A den for the men and women

Of intellect to meet and 

Read books.

Exchange ideas.

He made it into his mission

To deliver the remaining of

His books

To this sacred place.

 

He recited the rite

Into the ghost mirror.

The mirror

Granted his wish.

So he had the strength

And the life he borrowed

Again.