pages.

pages


pages
waiting in line
to quarrel.
each trying to
jostle its neighbour
off balance
and claim centre stage.


the weaker trembles
in mid-air rooted flight
before silently retreating,
humbly bowing down, beaten,
to rest on a foundation
of historic losses.


there are pages
and other pages.
some are scene painters,
writer talks, character conversations,
the rare climax, end.
and the go-betweens-
silver binding threads,
that are often abandoned
in a whirl of fastforwards.


words stomp their feet
on the flat tissue floor
mark their territory, and hide
away from bruising eyes
that scrutinise.


until they are awakened
by rude rustling
of their yellowed cracked beds.