The thief of books

Sitting down to eat the remains of the day

at the kitchen table,

it was all quiet on the western front.

The return of the native had taken place.

And now, filled with sensibility rather than sense,

he scanned this brave new world with a pair of blue eyes.

He had been where angels fear to tread,

and now, back at this bleak house,

was regretting both his pride and his prejudice.

She, the lost girl,

was gone with the wind

into the shadow in the north.

And now he searches for desperate remedies,

prepares for one hundred years of solitude,

his heart of darkness but a handful of dust. 

Photo by Andrew Neel on Unsplash

*** written in response to a writing prompt on Peter Wyn Mosey’s brilliant website, here:

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