Email Poem

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Poem

It sits on a shelf, not quite by itself
Leaning on another, bored by the other
Waiting to be picked, waiting
To be held

It sits in the gloom, of a dusty room
Filled with motes and lost notes 
Tomes that have gone home
Others that wished they had

It sits where it has sat
High on a shelf
Through two World Wars
A library in pause

You can see it through a window
A monograph in the murk
The work of an author long dead
Stories once read

From this bound book of poems
Stories once told, yet
No one will hold
This yellowed old tome 

These sad pages of poetry
Sheets of simile
And lines of depressed rhyme
Where Silverfish have dined

As it now gathers dust
A must; if it’s to rest in peace 
Amongst
This graveyard of books

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