Why am I not worth enough? What have I not done?
I can give you all but time, for that I have got none.
Yet you need to breathe, to be
All within yourself,
So let the days layer upon me
Like dust upon the shelf.
The books on it tell stories still of people yet unborn
To those Who dare to pull apart the paper covers worn.
And falling off the shelf like leaves
Upon most gentle touches
They’ll flap their pages just like wings
And fly for th’one Who watches.
The ink will flake. The pages, old,
Will fold and tear and crumple,
And every life yet to unfold
Will slowly, slowly crumble.
And faded memories of rhymes
Will lull me back to sleep
In silence of the darkest times
When nothing’s left to keep.
(Picture not mine)