October 12, 2013

The Poem to Its Reader

It seems not fair to have to spend my time
imprisoned, ink on paper, on a page,
awaiting you, Dear Reader, to engage
me, read me, give life to my rhyme.
My life is spent in slumber on a shelf,
so unaware I do not know myself,
until your hand, your eye, your mind awake
me: I from you my living substance take.

But not just you, my present mortal friend ,
who, unlike me, must reach a final end.
When you are dead, I’ll merely fall asleep,
for I am patient, and my slumber deep.
While you are gone, another day will find
that I live still within another mind.

Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG
October 12, 2013

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