Book

A book lies dusty on a shelf,
its contents misunderstood,
an author’s child,
born out of blood sweat and tears.
Its pages fading corners,
now untouched by inquisitive fingers.
A book of knowledge,
soon to be lost in time,
as years take their toll in decay,
and old man’s dream,
is soon to rush to dust.

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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