You all may not be people, but your pages are the fragments of those who toiled for your birth– the time they lost piecing together the broke glass they scattered on the murky sea of their memories.
Each of you is a glass mosaic like each of us– built, broken, rebuilt by the age and the agents around us.
And each of you deserve to see light shine upon you, to reveal in the heaven of thoughts the drops your creators left frozen in the glue they used to hold all of you together. Not yet, not yet.
And each of you deserve to see lakes and oceans be shaped by the prisms of your peculiar lenses. Not yet, not yet.
And each of you deserve to feel the crashing waves sweep and break over you, and become the smoothened pebbles so transparent in beauty that enchanted a curious child in the beach of written dreams. Not yet, not yet.
For you are with me as you could be with someone else. Not yet.
Freeing (buying) you as orphans in shelves, I promised to give you life in the murky depths of my swamp. Not yet, not yet.
I huddle you close with me and my standstill waters, waiting for all of you to see the sun in my eyes. Not yet.
I will wait with you as you wait with me as we wait for this swamp to become an orchid sanctuary of glass petals and a sea, an ocean, swimming around me.
Not yet, not yet. Not yet, not yet.
For this prompt:
Write the blurb for the book jacket of the book you’d write, if only you had the time and inclination.
Photographers, artists, poets: show us BOOKS.
I have tons of books still waiting to be read. They are with me in my journey. I know they will wait with me, as much as they deserve to be with someone else.