Running a finger upon the spines
Treasures of unrequited wit
It can be difficult to wear a smile
When you always feel like shit
Fingerprints on the dusty shelves
Disfigured; in need of some rest
Looking for inspiration in the pages
Slowly drowning despite doing my best
Surrounding myself with ancient friends
Wisdom & experiences laid upon my shelf
Bare for all to quietly consume
Providing a chance for a better version of self
Absorbing past lives without pause
Silhouettes of women from long ago
Angst from existential rights in time
Visions of dreams I wish to forgo
These books are mere placeholders
For the contents of my heart upon hardwood
Gentle reminders of our former intellect
& the hope we might return to being good
Excuse me, Miss
I need help between the books
You look down your glasses at me
Don’t worry about their errant looks
You’re dressed mighty nice
I think it’s by the back shelves
It seems I’ve gotten us lost
Oh my, I think we’re by ourselves
I pull you in close
A hand sneaks under your skirt to play
You moan aloud; onlookers’ smile
Apparently we’re still on display
Image by Eli Digital Creative from Pixabay
Tracing the bindings of Dostoyevsky
Along with Tolstoy & Solzhenitsyn on my shelves
The salve for my weaker moments
& a morning shot since we cannot save ourselves
Image by Shameen Miller from Pixabay
You have all your beautiful decorations
Your Louis bag & Burberry coat
Flaunting everything which couldn’t be
Knowing how to get my bloody throat
You’ll find your adornments gone someday
They’ll suddenly be missing as you wake
Feeling distraught with nothing left
You’ll be lonely without any Real Estate
You’ll have no glamour & no identity
Find a need to fold back within yourself
No one will care, so no reason to hide
You’ll no longer be living on the top shelf
Downcast eyes revealing all exposed lies
Once the object of unparalleled lust
Age without refinement turns ugly
Life’s not so pretty, fallen from the upper crust
Captain Q 