Just a Book

This is for the 3 a.m. novel readers
Who know—who share—my pain, my plight
This is for those special kind of tortured souls
Who more than rationalize pretending
That time does not exist.
This is for those people who, like me,
Are compelled by some intrinsic force
Beyond our comprehension
To hold back the ebb and flow of reality and tangibility
Just to do something so simple as reading a book.
But it's more than just reading a book—
It's finishing it:
We know the fear—the thrill—
The as of yet untouched pain
Of sleepless nights
And abstinence from accomplishment
Because deep inside we know—
We know that when we pick up that book,
We can never put it down.
We try to stay away;
We tell ourselves we won't check books out from the library
Or buy them in bulk (or even in pairs) from used book stores;
We tell ourselves we'll buckle down,
And leave those worlds behind
Because we tell ourselves
That this is the world that is real—
That this is the world that needs me.
But inevitably a book appears,
A manifestation of our darkest dreams
And most tantalizing nightmares,
Found precisely because we were trying to avoid it.
And with trembling hands
And fearful, salivating mind
We stare at it,
And we know that if we pick it up,
We could never put it down.
And yet despite the blazing, whirling world around us,
As fast and bright and compelling as it burns,
With a limited and lowering supply of fuel,
We know that when we see that book,
We can't not pick it up.
And we know that if we pick it up,
We can never put if down.

If Chaos

If Chaos spreads/consumes forth equally,
          Is even chaos (entropy's success)
          A form of Order yet, reciproc'lly?
And Chaos' firm dilution ==> its regress?
The sands of time grind things of space to dust;
          When all's the same, all's subsequently void,
                    And Chaos' vict'ry ground from cosmic lust:
                              OBEDIENCE® has Entropic Laws™ employed.
Yet still the Dust combines in birthing stars,
And Order full rebels 'gainst swirling sky;
With Order, placid Chaos they do mar;
As supernovic martyrs they do die.
Chaos and Order, two sides of a coin,
          Fight to pull 'part, but can only enjoin.

Nigh Fast As Echoes Die

When list'ning to a brilliant, glorious song,
Within our minds it sound--rebounds--and sings,
And in the moment seems to so prolong:
The tune--the whole--in panorama rings. 
But, when it ends, all suddenly is gone,
For mem'ry fades nigh fast as echoes die,
And when we strain to then recall the song,
We hear the empty strain of open sky. 
We're left with halting fragments--ghosts of tunes--
And mem'ries only of remembering;
The notes forgotten: new and distant moons,
And nothing comes when we 'gain try to sing. 
To keep the mem'ry of that song alive,
To listen to it oft we oft must strive.