Volumes

The simple gesture spoke volumes so I

wrote down volumes for them. Years passed, dust set.

The books encaséd in their wooden, glass throne.

When I dared to visit them, I read them

cover to cover. One volume after

another until both the books and I

are exhausted. The dust of time brushed off

by the gentle breeze from the leaves, rustle

that broke the glass parting memories and

air.

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