Books on the Shelf

Books on the Shelf

(the progress of life)

 

Books on the shelf, books on the shelf,

I turned to the words to find myself.

The first one was gentle, and I love to this day.

And it’s the first book I put on display.

 

 

Rows upon rows upon rows upon rows

The shelf is alive as a young plant it grows.

The colors jump and swirl while the words pulse and glow

They take me on journeys and I go and I go.

 

 

The cover and title the same it was seeming

yet next time I read it, the words had new meaning.

This book that is standing is not standing still,

For the deep voice it has now was once loud and shrill.

 

 

A stack of hardcovers the teacher requires.

Who reads them all? The cheaters, the liars.

Words on my wall, a letter from college,

And unopened books, which gave me the knowledge.

 

 

My absolute favorite catches my eye,

The one makes me laugh, and dance, and cry.

I received her today, dazzling all white

But her words were mine the very first night.

 

 

I slip in a new one, shiny red leather,

This one is the smallest, some hairless feather.

It’s pages inkless, no words yet to say,

I hope it too shall have a bookshelf one day

 

 

worn and torn, and bent and old,

this grey one was black when first it was sold.

If years erased words, how it’s defined,

is all its remains in the thoughts of my mind?

 

The world is a shelf, each book has a fate

Some words give directions, others give us a mate.

A book needs a shelf, as words need light,

And the words have a purpose, if you look at it right.

 

 

Papers stacks, picture books, or leather-bound,

Which ones are searching and which ones are found?

And then I reflect on words for myself,

Books on the shelf, books on the shelf.

 

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