I sit here, aged
worn and world weary
memories of a thousand hands
that etched themselves on my skin
and even now, the gentlest hands
send reverberations along my spine
And you, young and glossy
sit there mocking my old ways
emptying my shelves
and scorning my brothers
You do not know
When my temples burn,
the people cry out
When my brothers catch fire,
there is outrage
But you, usurper
None shall mourn your passing
or risk their life to protect
your failing hardware
YOU ARE READING
On Books
PoetryI sit here, aged worn and world weary memories of a thousand hands that etched themselves on my skin and even now, the gentlest hands send reverberations along my spine And you, young and glossy sit there mocking my old ways emptying my shelves and...
