books i never read

i buy books and sometimes only read a word
or two, (and sometimes one word three times over).
i buy books and pages are never turned.
they pile up, unopened, unread,
seemingly unloved, but never so.
because i know what lies on the inside
is often more magnificent
than my mind can comprehend.
i buy books and what is purchased
as a singular piece of written art
becomes an individual part of a whole,
ever evolving work of visual delight,
sitting together, intermingling,
sometimes never fully emerging,
yet collectively creating mystery and mayhem;
conundrums form in their closing,
but deep inside
i know, i know.
i buy books that hold words i will never see,
but just because i don’t read each sentence,
doesn’t mean i don’t know what’s within.
i buy books and sit looking at them for hours,
contemplating, wondering, absorbing,
making meaning out of unanswered questions,
like a painting on a wall,
only i don’t have to see each word
or understand every subplot
to know,
to feel
what’s on the inside
is a work of a whole, life-giving, beauty;
feeding my heart,
saving my soul.
i buy books
and together we create a masterpiece.

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