A wise sage once said to turn the page,
As if the next page automatically prompts
A new chapter.
Hear that sound?
That’s my laughter.
That sage got nothing on me,
Papercuts shall set me free.
My book has no chapters,
My book has no pages,
My book has no readers,
My book just has ages.
Stamped like markings from the library,
Where things are of the contrary,
Free to all, yet free to none,
Free to fall, or free to run.
You will be undone.
Now, now, come, come.
You will obey and turn that page,
And do so happily because the sage,
Told you happiness is so easily found,
A flick of the wrist, one page down.
But with one down, how many to follow?
Sink or swim? Poison you swallowed.
Maybe it’s time to step out of the metaphor,
Feel the cold stone of the penitentiary floor.
You thought it was home,
You thought it was life,
You thought of Barbados,
You thought of the knife.
Oh, that book you wrote.
Oh, those pages you turned.
What did it ever get you?
Have you finally learned?
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