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.