August 2, 2016


My study, with its shelves
of dusty, dog-eared books,
lined all neatly in their rows,
sees me scurry by on my way
to somewhere else,
forever in a rush to be gone.
I feel its pull,
still so strong,
though not so much 
that I would stop right now,
turn on a light and sit down,
open any book at hand
to find the answers
in my headlong haste
I seek outside,
written already
before I was born,
long before I began
to scribble on my own,
hoping one day my words
might stand alone.