The books on these shelves here, to my left
Once laden with promise, heavy with the hope of salvation
Are no longer groaning under the weight of such responsibility
I supped greedily on those words
Desperately praying that the nectar of freedom
Might be magically conveyed via those pages
To transmute my undoubted suffering
Surely, I reasoned, the answer must reside somewhere in those sentences?
It's been a while since I last glanced across at them
Tonight, I notice some familiar words on the spines
(Mystery, spirit, vastness, heart, extraordinary)
And I see colours – dark blue, black, deep crimson, green –
Against the white of the bookcase
Otherwise, they seem strangely empty, offering nothing
No longer required to hold out hope
Relieved of the burden of redeeming me
These books and I now all free
To simply be what we always have been
