23 April 2012
I have a curious tale to tell. Im not sure if you'll take it well. I scarcely believe it to be so; Perhaps its not. I may not know.
When I am all alone at night, Reading with my bedside light, I hear a rustling from the shelves, As if the books can move themselves.
Their covers twitch, their pages flutter, Their musty spines melt like butter, And from the mess of paper rise, A paper face, with inky eyes.
Dark eyes flick to stare at me, Those lidless paper eyes that see, Then from a bulge of mottled cover, A paper hand. And then another.
With rustling, trembling, tearing sound, They pull their paper bodies round, Unfold their legs, so long, so thin, And sit like spiders, sharp as pin.
Then tearing, paper mouths appear, And speak to me those words I fear; Those crinkled words I hear each night: "Mark our wordsss," they hiss and bite.
I drop my book, my pulses rise, As one by one they grow in size, Their paper rips, their pages split, Until the size of us, they sit.
Soon they stand, once all are grown, The People of the Pages sown, Those hollow paper legs that crept Nearer, nearer still, they stepped.
"Mark our wordsss," their faces say, "Mark our wordsss upon this day, That we must live inside your head," Crawling, closer, up the bed.
I cannot move, I cannot cry, Still closer to me, as I lie, Their spidery legs across my bed, "...We must live inside your HEAD..."
The book has dropped. It hits the floor. I am now awake, once more. The curtains hide the light of day, In an empty room I lay.
Was I asleep? Did I not see The People of The Pages be? I scarcely believe it to be so; Perhaps its not. I may not know.
The People of the Pages • Opuss № I