That study which had late become my home
Was mostly peaceful, counting out those times
She visited to chide me: "In what tome
Can you descry life's secrets most sublime?
What of the nature of reality
Will come to light these nights you scrutinize
A copy of a poor facsimile
Of what out there -- inside us -- truly lies?
These books were once a forest, under which
You dwelt on characters more ably drawn;
If this their home must be as dark as pitch,
Still you can venture out beneath the dawn.
But be no longer burdened by their heft:
It is but words." She spoke these words and left.

July 6, 2008.

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