I found what I was searching for
in the library
it was the book which wasn't there
the one I wrote
myself.
In twisting, orichalcum shapes I saw
an empty book on a shelf,
and on the ivory coloured blank pages
I read the story I didn't write,
o' how my thoughts became like orchids
growin' from the abyss I was in.
For all these publications are but
words to sell
for a coin and a warm meal -
but I understand.
They do too.
Like a seed sprouting from the black soil,
seeking the light above,
I curved and bent in a straight line,
into the gemmed azure
while the basilisks hounds barked
then I withdrew - not now.
For there are certainly gems -
but I found
the real treasure is at home,
for in memories,
to understand.
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