Between oceans lies the deserted Land of Decoration.
The book thief wanders these tomeless shores and resigns
to the forgetting time.
A life discarded,
a dismantled bike crumpled at the
of a cliff.
No trigger warning present. They are all alone here.
Untouched by urban lights,
the night rainbow is as expressive
as smoke and as reflective as mirrors.
Their reflection is five things:
If the book thief could have read their ending, they
would have permanently postponed their journey.
But the chance to be a discoverer of an imaginary
world proved too enticing to ignore.
So they rode on a spring tide
of words to get here.
Refusing to believe there was more than this —
more to life than thieving and reading.
The promised new life had been storied.
This land of decoration was void of things. Void of life.
Now all the book thief has
is a collection of fragmented titles
from the stolen books they once read
when they were happy —
so carelessly happy.