Locked in their minds,
hidden behind masks,
books carry their own lives with them,
lives in ranks,
shelved soldiers to attention.
Touch one and he will freeze, stare back,
awaiting the first time move;
once patted, step forward
to unveil his solitude,
reveal his might,
or disappoint through fashion.
Lost guerrillas prepared to fight back,
books outweigh magnetic inheritors
subject to a new commercial program
cloned in hope of redemption.
A book, once opened,
is an army in pursuit of right,
each soldier a deceptive Trojan horse.
Len Webster
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/books-48/
