Pages full of nondescript random noisy pointless shit
stacked upon and stacked upon until a book is built
With random corners bent and ripped Passed around
Borrowed lent
Punctuated with the putrid scent
Of all the hands that passed these specific shapes of ink along
Through this podunk one horse shanty town
Nestled among rolling hills of green and brown
Little clouds of dirt rise and swirl with each foot step pressed into the world.
Somewhere in the infinite swirls of dirt fall down and shapes arrange somehow in specific patterns making random words to stack upon and stack upon until some sort of sense is forged into a pair of iron shoes for that single horse in its shanty town
A Bottle of Joy 