Dusty Bookshelf

 

Dust! Dust is everywhere!

Spiders webs cover my bookshelf.

Bring the shovel, though I don't care about cleaning up all this dirt. 

I found a book, amidst the whirl of dust.

It wasn't like the others; 

The way it looked was outstanding! 

The melody of its words was breathtaking!

I leafed through its chapters carefully.

My hand touched its earliest pages.

It was as yellow as daffodils in spring.

So I decided to read and read till I drowned myself in its fragrance. 

But soon, its middle turned to blades, where each surface hurt my long fingers.

These wounds kept bleeding as I stopped reading. 

Now I knew it wasn't different; it's the same as the others;

harmful, cruel, and disappointing.

I read it halfway, then put it on the shelf again;

For I didn't want to hurt my weeping soul. 

Dust! Dust is everywhere!

Insects are eating those books and papers.

And I'm setting on my rocky chair—

Not care about the dirt on that shelf.