The Reader’s Disease

Books try—
to make whole
a fragment,
a story condensed
into one drop of life.
 
Ink stains
on dead paper—
how long before they fade?
 
The writer dies.
But not the spark.
Not the illusion of knowing.
 
Certification—required.
As if truth needs approval.
All life’s philosophies
locked away in dusty shelves.
Dark corners
of libraries exhale
the smell of forgotten ink.
 
Pages—yellowed
like brittle bones,
turn classical
with a sigh.
 
When the ink blurs,
do ideals breathe again?
Are stories—of things, of people—
released into the void?
 
And if the writer
is left behind,
does civilization suffer at all?
 
Is there anything left
to truly learn?
Humans today
barely face themselves.
 
What you buried—
you never asked to know.
What lay beneath
your damp heart?
 
What urge took you
to the ocean floor?
 
Can a writer survive
here,
in this machine-fed archive?
 
Unlikely.
In the scrapyard of human minds—
resentment curdles,
ego preens,
envy festers,
ambition burns unchecked.
 
The tale of all thirsts quenched—
a myth.
Knowledge can’t do that.
Not anymore.
 
Wisdom is no longer sacred.
It’s a cunning lie,
a trick of the clever mind,
a blueprint for betrayal.
 
Arrogance finishes
what education barely begins—
with a roar,
a self-congratulatory gasp.
 
When those heavy words
are burned into awareness,
cleansed by fire—
then maybe,
just maybe,
what remains of God’s legacy
will reach for empathy
instead of applause.
 
No more reports.
No more summaries.
 
There have been enough stories.
Enough dead writers.
 
To make writing immortal—
is to accept its death.
 
Their words,
no longer just ink,
are lives
trying to live again—
in piles of the lifeless,
or
in stories that still breathe.
 
If you want words
to live forever,
you must be more
than wise—
You must be human.
More than a scholar—
a reader with a heart
hungry
not for brilliance,
but for being.