Upon the Finger Tips of Man Lies a Book
The eyes of a book sleep in the skeptical whispers of its reader. Remedies brew within, and in the midst of gravity a thought is birthed by an influential shimmer in the eve of day. The lips of a book reverberate and mimic the words of its student. Eloquent currents of the tongue, as of those in the stream of imagination, whisk revelations in a batter of innovation. The spine of a book, where beauty lies in gray locks as opposed to silk grooves of blond fibers, for pride and eminence lie in the fractures of the unprecedented sews of its flesh. As it proceeds generations of woes, guffaws, and tears, it becomes stained with a spice of foreign flavors that savors in the stew of human perception. The sensation of the touch of a nimble papyrus pane of a book tempts its reader to flutter through a window of crystal lattices in a terrain of frosted flowers in the summer snow. And, balanced upon the cynical finger tips of man, it twirls in a shower of omniscient charisma.
-FMG
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