Ink on paper

I live in a bookshelf
surrounded by a house
hundreds of thousands of words
the consequence of so much musing
bulging brains
ironed out flat
into ink on paper
but don’t be fooled
they’re not inanimate
these books
it’s a disguise
a temporary repose
I live in a jungle
like tigers waiting in trees
they stalk me
waiting to rupture my quiet day
and sink their worlds
into mine.