The faces, held with bated breath,
in a book's dusk-dusted pages,
congregated in the pews of twilight,
drawn down upon their ages.
Each slice of their hearts delight,
desiccated in the spume of tears
torn from their rants and rages,
to lay warm, wrapped in dust,
and fast within the pages.
I can smell their sadness there in must.
The hands that held the book,
cheek to cheek, dusting dust,
swirl fast a gazing loving look.
Or, cosy in brown paper shroud,
you haunt the time machine,
tip toe through the mausoleum,
wherein we all do dream.
Waltz me forever, tight to your bosom,
in love's long pirouette.
Down all the fastness of our time,
for not one minute do I regret,
our second-hand repose.