White, shelves. Many they hold,
Some of which have stories told.
Faded ink, withstanding time,
Books worn; far past their prime.
Fresh ink too, dark and bold,
Supple spines are graced with gold.
Pages burn, though not inclined,
Each walk predestined lines.
White, shelves. The laws are old.
Ink is fading, growing cold.
January 2015
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of Poetic Thoughts
PoetryJust some poems I've written that I felt like sharing.
