Gutenberg for Posterity

Impenetrable in the place she's caught,
Got a strong-spine, but she's threadbare, forlorn,
Edges fraying, words fading into naught, 
Wrinkling from the beasts and floods she has fought,
Inscriptions loosing their golden hearts, worn,
From years of travel and oceans of lives,
Corners ruptured, punctured, folded, and torn,
By clumsy sabbath hands on summer morn,
Her mortal yarn passed as divine contrives,
Guilty holes in souls of fresh-woven lace,
She sits self-consumed as her sharpened knives,
Pierce holes in dreams and drown by fluke gyves;
Her survival shocking, dust-crusted face,
But may she kill Future without disgrace?

The End

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