The Perfect Book Paula Arauja Parra
My book was my most precious possession— With the deepest levels of my soul
Titled in gold on its cover And the preserved spine To which I carefully tended
I used to believe that was The truest display of your loyalty To that which you love: Sustaining its perfection. Each day the same— Never marking, damaging, or bending The structure and contents alike However, one day you showed me Your equally valuable book That possessed a myriad of Marks, damages, and bends— A book I never would have Otherwise picked for myself, Yet one I found irrevocably ethereal
The Light of Knowledge | Bohdan Budash | Photography
A few moons afterward When I reflected on mine,
The flawlessness of it seemed No longer ideal nor sensible, For I had wasted all my time Believing it was essential— When in truth I had damaged it the worst
By not allowing its words To be engraved in my soul
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