In the bookshop

Here I sit,
My life on show,
Laid out upon this decorated table,
For inquisitive eyes to view, dissect and devour, Naked I sit in public,
All my layers removed, Anonymity lost to public gaze,
Awaiting their judgements passed,
On me,
My life,
My work,
My façade unflinching in ferocity,
As I market my vulnerability,
Unable to cope with prying eyes,
As my demeanour cracks,
My face showing signs of discomfort,
With Wordsworth, Keats and Shakespeare to my left, Watching as I continue down the paths they once trod,
As T.S hints upon my wastelands,
As I recall so vividly a picture,
Of pints of black fluid,
Wetting unvarnished tables,
Tears of condensation rolling from its glassy outer skin,
I dream of blonde hair golden with July sun,
Blue oceans of her eyes sparkle with that smile,
I search for halo and wings,
But not to be found, incognito?
Will the intoxication of this smile seep into my coming days, To dance through sleepless nights under the same moon, And in summer sunshine,
Reflect from glinting surfaces with rays of light,
But never as bright as that smile,
So once more to return to my decorated table,
Bic warmed and ready,
“And this is to?” I utter once more,
Flick of hand trails permanent greetings to you, Scratching black ink to fibrous leaves,
And off they float,
Never to be seen again, With a enduring reminder of me,
And my life,
Beyond those prying eyes,
To release mine and my truths for you all to see, From this vantage point of my decorated table, In the bookshop.

Proposed bonsai when i start my new collection.
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3 thoughts on “In the bookshop

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