Old books,
On an old bookshelf.
A bookshelf in the middle of the woods.
The woods have been rained on.
A little girl reaches for an old book.
Rose petal fingers dance over the ruff cover,
And through the pages,
Pages that will leave their memory on her skin.
Her bare feet are moss.
Moss that comes from the old books.
Her mind is a soft river,
A river that washes the books.
Her skin is the wood of the trees
Trees that made the old books.
Her dark green eyes match the covers
Of the old books.
The books rain softly,
With their story's.
The books that have been worn
By Century of delicate fingers.
Dust is always brushed away
Before the old books are read.
Coffee soil stains her feet,
Stains that her mother won't be happy about.
But her mother used to come home,
With those same stains.
Because old books are never forgotten
After they leave their mark.
YOU ARE READING
My silly little poems
PoetryThis isn't a book. This is just some of my random writing that I've done. I go to writing class so these are what I write there. Don't comment rude things, if you have something you think could be better great, if you want to tell me ok just don'...
