the reader's letter to the writers

Sometimes, my expectations rise, above and above, 

and I have to ask the question,

is it good enough.

Have I finished writing the poem?

 

When I am reading something, 

I know that those who read are some solitary readers, 

only them by themselves, 

only them and the book,

only them and The depth of their souls,

solitary but never alone.

Wanting to reach the heaven and

trying to have a crescendo speed with their heart

reaching the depths of their souls, 

When I am reading something, 

I know that those who write are some solitary writers, 

only them by themselves, 

only them and their creation,

only them and The depth of the soul,

solitary and never alone.

Wanting to reach the heaven and

trying to have a crescendo with their heart

reaching the depth of our souls, 

In a sort of way they seem like they could be so cold 

in a dialog that I can have with them 

when I read them,

because of their solid imaginative environment 

in their oeuvres,

because they are far apart in history.

And history is cold by its own.

But the writers are not so far apart, for the most of the times 

on the longest run, 

they can burn my soul like a burning steel, 

and they are making my heart a stainless steel heart 

full with all of the sentiments.

A Stainless Steel Solid Material exceeded by sentiments, who are

vivid, and woke, 

transforming 

my soul by 

assembling it as Dionysios's chest 

that has been disassembled.

But what have I done to have an disassembleable heart?

Only that I really love art a lot.

Beating in Thomas Mann's rhythm by imagining and feeling everything,

breathing its environment in my rich imagination 

delegated by his books narrative, 

I am at the edge of his books, delegated by his own imagination, when I read his stories.

and also,

I can only ask,

do I have a disassembleable heart or soul, did Dionysios had something like that, if yes cool, if not this is something new

Is the soul disassembled enough for the writers aesthetical beautiful oeuvres, 

ready to be reassembled, only like a puzzle?

Am I going to become like a gin? 

Can I haunt bookstores when I am dreaming of finding my only true favorite books?

Will it be rewritten in my narrative poem,

just like a puzzle ready to be fulfilled by some actions or words?

have this poem already reached the finish bottom, 

and is it completed

is the poem finished and is it enoughly written?

yes; It is.