Not in a Book

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Negro-Crayola-pigmented figures may dance,

But their minds lay paralyzed,

Wasting away in the flow of the idolized,

Instead of the flow of the idealized.

It’s been said that ancient secrets lay hidden in text,

One’s too big for my mind to comprehend.

It’s been said that you could hide it in a book,

Because my eyes won’t fondle the text.

Why is it that the only time we’re fated to meet,

It’s in the vagary of my mind,

Seeking a novaturient experience, a life changing journey,

Is a fable concocted back in mythological time?

I’m guessing Langston Hughes was a modern day Homer,

According to the stereotype, at least,

Telling tales with such grandeur,

But, still, only amounting to religious disbelief.

Books are like ghosts to us,

A caricature of the ignorant, watermelon loving, chicken stealing buffoons,

Displaying the incapability of we,

The people judged too soon.

Well,

I say not I.

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