An unknown title of an unknown book…
Resting upon a dusty shelf,
Spine outward, with no apparent author…
Written of the same ink… bound by the same glue…

Words introduced, names exchanged, the beginning of a beginning.
A beginning soon forgotten, volumes from an end.
A beginning buried beneath chapters of blinding white snow,
twenty sheets of pure ice,
twenty wordless years.
Growing more and more blank pages,
each year growing fatter with emptiness.
It was a book firmly closed.

Closed until opened.
Slipping off the shelf..
Falling through itself..
Shaking off decades of dust.
Shaking in awe, as its corners cut through the air.
Pages breathing the wind, free as a fluttering dove.
Crashing open… lying on its back..
A unique smell of age released… proof of life.

Easterly winds blowing…
Pushing up the twenty first page…
An invisible hand, dips deep in an inky well…
Words… a quick trickle,
followed by a gushing stream of sentences.
Words, racing down the page..
Front and back savouring every drop sliding down..
Each side blind to the other… the only clue,
a few periods poking through.

Blindness soon blinded by the sun.
Words finally seeing both sides…
A page erect and illuminated…
Everything in perfect order.
For a moment everything clear.
Everything transparent.
Seeing, feeling, believing..
two became one.

With every sun, there is a set.
Words, losing sight of one another…
Turning, spinning, contorting,
Finding none other than their own.
Restless words wrestling
in cages of uncertainty.
Letters consuming one another,
spelling unspeakable feelings.
Pockets of resistance, solitary sentences unsure of
the true nature of their words.. Yet too afraid to spell the opposite.
Under attack by synonyms of confinement, madness, and desperation.
Somewhere in the darkness lie the letters of truth and honesty burying a hole on both sides.

Praying for another sunrise.
Chasing moonlight away..
Hopefully holding on to more than a dream.
Twenty one chapters, or more?