Book Burning

There is a book burning in me.
It wants to find its words.
It is like a soul without a mind.
A jewel with the dazzling emptiness
of its arms.
It needs a partner in crime.
A motive for an implicate world.
For shapes.
In my case a book
opening its leaves to the sun.
A song finding its bell.
A tomb waiting to be filled
with violets taken from the grass
and used for markers.
Everyone has a book in them,
the walk about,
the beginning and end of time.
I have mine,
and I am busy writing it.