God has painted my complexion,

that's no confession.

And God has written my persona in the stars,

along with the fate of everything, and Mars

is veering off its orbit.

Humanity is unfit

to thrive as usual,

but reality is unusual.

Back to bookshelves that stretch across all of Africa,

back to the books that drown the sea and soak its waters like a sponge.

Back to this library, pages upon pages of sepia.

Back to us, we're just books, waiting to plunge

ourselves into the expanse of space.

Waiting for a face

to divide one of our chapters with a firm finger.

To befriend us and to linger, along with many others,

we want to belong to colonies

even though we'll die alone.

I'll try to stick sequins over my cover,

maybe they'll catch the light, and get someone to read me.

I can't stay on the shelf all my life, collecting dust,

while they all turn to dust,

just to pass me by,

just to miserably die.

I know that my pages will be wordy, lengthy too,

but I promise I won't give you a paper cut, yes, I do.

If they'll read me, I'll read them, and the few of us'll sit atop a mahogany shelf.

Never again by myself.

Drenched in fumes,

intoxicating,

all but a guise!

But something looms,

intimidating,

their anxious cries!

"Olives don't mix well with mushrooms, so I've heard.

But shredded coconuts compliment them quite well,"

says the little bunting bird,

but I flew away, "farewell,

I say!"

Flew out of the pages of the book I once was and

into the darkness, the black.

Only when they reprimand

me will I ever crack.

︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎

ద ద 𖦊 ꪉ 𐀔 𐃸 ద 𖦊 ʊ

༒ ༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒ . . ༒

༒ ༒ ᜊ ༒ ༒ ༒

༒ ༒ ༒

༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒

༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒

ద ༒

༒ . ༒

༒ . . ᰔ

༒

༒