Rift

I’ve ripped one of my books tonight:

With violence, at first,

Calmly, later.

The pages lay dismembered on the floor,

As the pungent smell of ink

Spread through the room,

Carrying the scent of my own blood.

I then tried reading

The incoherent messages

Written on those shattered dreams.

'Twas a story

With neither rhyme nor reason,

For this life of mine

Could not be told.

by Jason R. Forbus