and boyish looking sexagenarian
with similar disposition,
I revel(ed) reading in general
(and spent carefree idle summer days
squirreled away with tomes
of posthumous authors)
buoyed aloft in seventh heaven
courtesy the treasure trove of books
occupying shelf space
within childhood home
at 324 Level Road
(long since razed to the ground)
and indulged passion
for the written word
as independent learning,
and both parents encouraged
voracious appetite for knowledge of mine
to explore great works of literature,
whereat hours whiled away

I gorge on black ink shadows
and gulp down silver moon beams
delectable, saporous
by the streetlamp marinade
me hallucinating art
on a diet of glow world
hue imbued hungry brushstrokes
dream garnish o'er starlit feast

Some things stay the same only by changing/Love is not a finite thing/ That death is inescapable makes it both comforting and terrifying/It is easier to be angry than sad/ No one talks about the undeniable magic wrapped in a hug/ From a German folktale: a young man enamoured with a princess asks “is it better to speak or to die?”