Leaves of
pages
Ink done
Type set
A smell only
when aged
Death by
water
Ancient
knowledge conceded by internet
Still
holding
By the
jacket sleeves
Reserved for
us
A select
many
The literate
Once an
elite
Now a
commoner
Still waning
But not
conceding
This love
will be mine
No matter
how far-fetched
Thou shall
not depart from me
If done
Crumbling
ash shall be my name
For once
hold still
As I hold on
To world not
real
A life not
my own
But a dream
and wish
Rendered
never
But who
shall
Leave me and you in the raven night
With a light
And a
comforter
To spill
secrets
From an
editor’s computer
To my small
hands