Old books

Old books in an old library, they just feel so sad

Out of reach,

From thought not hands,

Its jacket dusty, paper yellow,

Its wonders forgotten,

A reminder of a remnant,

Of someone's dream long forgotten,

Ink fading,

As if of a shadow lessening,

When the light grows dimmer,

A melancholic stillness prevails,

Over it, as it sits,

On a shelf uncomplainingly,

It's story more tragic than the one it contains,

Nothing protecting it as it etiolates, 

Dying a slow death

The End

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