traffic

fingers blurred with spilling ink
from cuts straight to the spine,
traveling like light and shadow
along the watermarked binding;
lines that follow curve of page

with the scent of well-worn words
and all that remains
of the dreams of centuries past--
caught in an endless flow of turns
as the signs designate
a place to slow down;
a singular tree to the side
grabs the eye,
standing out like a neon sign

a comfortable weight in your hand
as you realize you stand
with all the knowledge in the world
and have no concept of it--
a paradox you set to fade
with every turn of the page.

--
Title is . . . hmm. Well, a prompt for awful metaphors, if nothing else, combined with this picture. It was most definitely not a poetry day.