This dusty shelf

is the whole existence

of a dusty pile of leaves.

And on this scrap

Are dead ideas--

Their maker long deceased.

Black ink

Crumbling tree bark

And maybe a tattered shred of leather.

It could be alive again

If someone cold just

Open me.

Let me breathe among the stars again

Feel warm breath on these tatters

Float me though pupils,

Into a life.

Worth knowing.

In a brain.

Worth knowledge.

I'm dead on this dusty bookshelf.


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