This old book of poetry
     Is so tattered and rare.
Its cover, its skin,
     Almost worn bare.
Once proud, once resolute,
     It guarded thoughts so fair.
Now it sill protects
     But is more eager to share.
What was firm and strong
     Is now soft from wear.

Inside are precious thoughts
     That merrited such care.
Each one exquisite
     Revealing the author’s flair.
Each page is faded,
     A victim of the air.
Each page is brittle
     More likely to tear
Than bend, to rip than turn,
     A librarian’s nightmare.

Each poem requires patience,
     You must mentally prepare
Before leaving one idea
     To follow where
The next page takes you
     Because once you are there,
You won’t want the risk,
     You won’t want the scare
Of turning back for fear
     That the page will snare
On your fingers and disapear
     Leaving you unaware
Of words abandoned
     To the great elsewhere.

While some would regard this antique
     To be in disrepair
I find its thoughts and packaging
     Without compare.
I’m reminded that for every dream
     We must always beware
That they may drift away
     Into ether along with our prayers.