The books

The following was a bad poem written while reading bad poetry.

*

Who are the books

the readers or writers;

who controls which

the text seems mightier

even when blank

or pressed and bound

left alone to rot

where imagination compounds

but this is folly:

interpretation dominates

for the writer dies

while the reader propagates

with understanding or not

congruence or otherwise,

they hold the paper

whereas it holds flies

and bears and worms

and mythical horses

which do not exist yet

but time always courses

until you find me here,

writing away from you,

wondering who am I

and which book I am too