Earlier today, I was reflecting upon the amazing gift God has given me to enjoy the written word. Not only has he revealed himself through through the Bible, but readers can experience galaxies of thought in trillions of words. There are people, however, who are unable to process the written word. They suffer from alexia, or dyslexia. As I pondered this disorder, I felt moved to write about it. The unfortunate part is that those living in an alexic prison are unable to read this brief poem.
Letters whirl around me like snowflakes
stinging as they strike my face
These small objects of beauty to readers
are icy blades that bring tears to my eyes
Why do others find precious what brings me pain?
Words strike me like sunbeams
atmospherically unfiltered
combinations of letters that warm the soul of readers
are flames upon my skin
Why do others bask in what burns me?
Sentences fall upon me like raindrops
rising rapidly in a flood
These cool beads of refreshment to readers
threaten to wash me away in a torrent
Why do others float effortlessly upon their currents while I am drowning?
My prison is a library.
Each book a cold steel bar that keeps me
from the freedom taken for granted.
I long for the liberation I see
in the world of words.
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