There’s a little stack of unread books
sitting on a white, wooden unit in the living room.
They could be about absolutely anything.
Fire. Guns. The tale of a tree’s lifetime.
Wizards. Darts. Facts about jungles.
Perhaps there’s a young boy in one of them
desperate to learn how to ride a bike.
There’s probably death in one.
And fireworks. And chocolate.
Those untouched pages could be filled with worlds
made of first times and tumbling walls.
There could be terrified lions, broken watches,
roads leading to doors leading to rivers.
There’s definitely death in one.
There must be death in one.
I can feel it.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

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