few things
speak of sadness more
than books collecting dust and the faintest touch
my kinship
lies with the words hidden inside
dreams dashed out at ends of pens
left forgotten
the pages turning bitter and yellow
left to die
and not as often
but just enough
i feel as if fragments of my spirit
join them on the shelves
wedging the covers shut
draped in only the faint cloak of dreams
turned into a fine blend
of dreams and a fond touch
turned to dust.
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